Plato's Phaedrus: A Defense of a Philosophic Art of Writing

PLATO'S P

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A DEFENSE OF A

P H I L O S O P H I C ART OF W R I T I N G

Ronnd Burger

THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA PRESS • UNIVERSITY, ALABAMA

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Burger, Ronna, 1947Plato's Phaedrus. Bibliography: p. Includes index. 1. Plato. Phaedrus. 2. Rhetoric, Ancient. 3. Socrates. 4. Writing. I. Title. B380.B86 184 79-9789 ISBN 0-8173-0014-7 Copyright © 1980 by The University of Alabama Press All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments Introduction I. II.

vii

1

Phaedrus the Private Man

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The Multicolored Speech of Lysias

19

III.

The Nympholeptic Speech of Socrates

IV.

The Daemonic Speech of Socrates

V. VI.

31

44

The Art of Speaking and the Principles of Dialectics The Art of Writing 90 Excursus: Writing Like the Painting of Living Animals

Appendix: Isocrates the Beautiful Notes

127

Bibliography Index

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154

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Unless otherwise noted, translations from the Phaedrus are the author's.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The opportunity to work on revisions of the original draft of this project was provided by an Andrew Mellon postdoctoral research fellowship at the City University of New York Graduate Center, September, 1978-June 1979. For their thoughtful comments and suggestions I am indebted to friends, colleagues, and professors who read an earlier draft of the manuscript, as well as to the readers chosen by the press. For my confidence in defending the small worth of these writings in light of the serious pursuit which underlies them I owe the deepest gratitude to my teacher, Seth Benardete.

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INTRODUCTION

Many things in praise or blame of each of the arts Thamuz is said to have declared to Theuth, of which the logos would take too long to narrate. But when he came to the letters: "This knowledge, O King," said Theuth, "will render the Egyptians wiser and give them better memories. For it is a drug of memory and wisdom I have discovered." But Thamuz replied, "Most artful Theuth, one man is able to bring forth the art, but another is able to judge what harm or benefit it has for those who are about to use it; and now you, being father of the letters, claim for them, through good will, the opposite of the capacity they possess. For this will produce forgetfulness in the souls of those who learn to use it, and lack of practice of memory, inasmuch as, through their trust in writing produced by external marks belonging to another, they will not recollect by themselves from within; it is, therefore, not a drug of memory but of reminding that you have discovered. And you supply to your pupils the appearance of wisdom, not true wisdom; for, having become addicted to hearing without instruction, they will think they understand many things, while being for the most part ignorant and hard to get along with, having become apparently wise rather than truly wise. (PHAEDRUS 274e-275b)

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ERHAPS ONLY A JEALOUS GOD WOULD CONDEMN THE ART OF WRITING FOR THE

boldness of its attempt to transcend man's natural limitations, but this divine perspective, cut off from human need, in fact illuminates the danger of the written word in concealing its effect on the activity of thinking. The discoverer of the art of writing offers men a divine power that can overcome the restrictions of human memory and the finitude of human wisdom; a suspicious god, however, takes heed of his own warning against the written word by suggesting that, if wisdom is to be anything more than the mere appearance of wisdom, thinking must always begin again at the beginning, proceeding backwards toward recovery of the fundamental perplexities which are obscured by all received opinion. In its claim to surmount this backward procedure, the art of writing presents itself as the necessary condition for continuity or development in the quest for wisdom: the illusion of beginning the journey of thought as if it had never been pursued before can be useful only if recognized as an illusion. The transmission of knowledge through the art of writing, which makes it unnecessary for every thinker to begin with a tabula rasa, promises at the same time to free human memory from the task of preserving communal opinion over time, while creating, through its independent product, the possibility of that distance from the authority of tradition necessary for the activity of thinking. Yet like ancestral tradition handed down from one generation to another, the written word seems

2

Introduction

to be not questioning but* authoritative, not adapted Ho the perspective of an individual thinker but addressed to a collective audience. The very benefit of the art of writing is, as the royal god insists, the source of its danger, for the preservation of a written tradition might produce just that forgetfulness which impedes the recognition of fundamental perplexities; the written word, with its deceptive appearance of wisdom, must be acknowledged as an obstacle to philosophic thought. Yet this divine judgment against human art is itself nothing but an imitation by human art. The condemnation of the written word in the speech of the god is in fact a recommendation for the interpretation of the written words through which that speech is imitated. It is precisely his critique against the written word, understood as a replacement for human memory, that compels the royal god to acknowledge its power as a reminder. Acting as a reminder, the dramatic representation of the judgment on the art of writing demands an examination of its apparently conclusive claim in light of the perspective of the speaker who utters it. Precluding in this way the passive submission of its reader to its own deceptive appearance of wisdom, the dialogue on writing triumphs over itself as the very obstacle brought to light by the royal god whose condemnation it represents. The dialogue between Theuth and Thamuz, which announces the danger of the written word as an obstacle to self-discovery, is said to be an ancient story handed down through generations, providing true opinion or the appearance of wisdom; but its meaning, which cannot be handed down, must be sought through an act of self-discovery, which replaces unmoving trust in the fixed authority of the tale with the motion of living thought. The paradoxical written imitation of the divine condemnation of writing thus shows itself to be only apparently self-contradictory: to heed its warning against the danger of writing is to overcome the need for that warning and thus to realize the potential value of the written word. The dialogue between Theuth and Thamuz is a model in miniature of every Platonic dialogue, whose fundamental perplexity is always determined by the tension between the living word and its written imitation: the products of the Platonic art of writing represent Socratic conversation as the paradigm of the philosophic enterprise without ever acknowledging the deed of their creator. While Platonic love of wisdom presents itself as nothing but the imitation of Socratic love of wisdom, the very act of imitation indicates the essential separation between them. Insofar as Socrates is indeed represented as the paradigm of the philosophic enterprise, an exploration of the connection between his love of wisdom and his avoidance of the activity of writing would be the necessary basis for any Platonic defense of the possibility of a philosophic art of writing. The dialogue whose particular theme consists in a self-reflection on its own nature as an imitation is Plato's Phaedrus. The dialogue's reflection on its own character as a product of writing results, ironically, in the apparent deprecation of the activity of writing. The capacity of the product of writing to replace living

3 Introduction thought with the illusion of wisdom is appropriately announced through the voice of Socrates, servant of the "despot Eros," who condemns those written words which, like the creatures of painting, always remain the same, not knowing when to speak and when to remain silent, unable to defend themselves. In contrast with the erotic vitality of living speech, writing announces the death of its creator; it is like the epitaph of thought. The Platonic dialogues commemorate the death of Socrates by replacing the living and breathing word of the speaker with a written imitation. But the condemnation of this monument of living thought conceals the ambiguity of its twofold nature, for the imitation which deceives when taken as an original may fulfill an indispensable function when recognized as an imitation: only the written word which points to its illusory appearance as a replacement of memory is able to uncover its own potential as a reminder to the knower. The very condemnation of the written word by the written word betrays that recognition of the playfulness of writing which is identified in the dialogue as a sign of the true lover of wisdom. The condition for Socrates' love of wisdom, which allows him to recognize the playfulness of writing, is knowledge of his own ignorance, which he identifies as the greatest human wisdom (cf. Apology 23b). The imitation of Socratic knowledge of ignorance by Platonic art is the claim of the Phaedrus to know of its own potential appearance of wisdom without the reality—which turns out to be the greatest human wisdom concerning the product of writing. Plato's Phaedrus thus demonstrates that the only written work which could condemn the art of writing would have to be an imitation of that erotic speech we call Socratic irony. Precisely through the acknowledgment of its own potential dangers, the Platonic dialogue sets in motion the activity of interpretation as its own realization, and thus illustrates the potential for overcoming exactly those limitations of the dead written word which Socrates condemns; when resuscitated with the breath of thought, the written corpse of the dialogue becomes a living being, knowing when to speak and when to remain silent, able to defend itself against all unjust abuse. The demand that "all logos" or "every logos" be constructed like a living animal—which seems to be a description of living speech in contrast with writing—is in fact introduced in the course of the discussion between Socrates and Phaedrus as a necessary principle for the organization of all logoi, spoken or written, whose structure must be "neither headless nor footless, but having a middle and members, composed in fitting relation to each other and to the whole" (264c). But just as the character of the dialogue as a product of writing seems to violate its own condemnation of the written word, so its own structure seems to violate its explicit demand for the organic unity of all speech. For the Phaedrus seems to display, rather than the unity of an organic whole, the discontinuity of two halves; while its first part consists in three separate speeches on eros, punctuated by interludes of playful conversation between two lovers of speech, its second part consists of a discussion on the art of speaking, which begins and ends with the question of the value of writing. For centuries commen-

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Introduction

tators have argued about its unity, contending that the major subject is love, the soul, the beautiful, rhetoric or the art of speaking, or dialectics, while this very contention has led to the resigned suggestion that the dialogue is simply selfcontradictory in demanding a unity which it itself does not possess. If "all logos" and "every logos" must be constructed like a living animal, the problem of the unity of the separate parts within this dialogue ought to reflect the problem of the unity of the Platonic corpus as a whole, of which the Phaedrus represents one part parading as a whole. Precisely that function that the Phaedrus serves in the structure of the whole composed of all the dialogues, then, might reveal the theme which determines its own internal completeness as an organic whole. If the Platonic corpus is indeed the "many-membered body of a living animal," the Phaedrus is that member which serves to examine the character of the whole as an imitation produced by the art of writing. If the role of the Phaedrus within the corpus of dialogues illuminates its own internal unity, the Platonic defense of the art of writing must provide for the Phaedrus itself the hidden bond between the speeches on eros and the discussion on rhetoric and dialectics. If, however, the problem of writing does constitute the underlying theme of the Phaedrus, its unifying function is perplexingly concealed beneath an apparently random conversation. The appropriate context for the conversation seems to be furnished by the shade of a grove sacfed to the nymphs, where the two lovers of speech lie down to exchange their speeches on love. But Socrates and Phaedrus are in fact led outside the walls of the city by the "drug" of a written speech; the clever love speech which Phaedrus conceals beneath his cloak betrays the ghostly presence of the speechwriter Lysias, haunting the apparently private scene between Socrates and Phaedrus. Socrates finally presents the conversation that he seems to conduct as a solitary encounter as a message addressed to three classes of writers: Lysias and the speech writers, Homer and the poets, Solon and the law-writers. From beginning to end, this most private erotic conversation is determined by the public nature of the written word. The tension between the appearance and reality of the drama of the dialogue thus reflects the tension between the apparent disunity of the themes of eras, rhetoric, and dialectics, and their concealed unification through the question of the nature of writing. The perplexing concealment of the theme of writing in feet provides a clue to the self-concealing nature which constitutes the danger of the written word; at the same time, the very recognition of the theme of writing, which discloses the underlying structure of the dialogue as a whole, points to the potential value of the art of writing for the construction of logos displaying the unity of an organic whole. The clues to the theme that determines the underlying unity of the Phaedrus lie in the muthoi that simultaneously connect and separate the diverse parts of the conversation, marking the divisions between the speeches on eros, the discussion on rhetoric and dialectics, and the analysis of writing. The fantastic tales

5 Introduction of a nymph carried off by the god of the north wind, lovers of music turned into chirping cicadas by the Muses, and a dialogue on writing between two Egyptian animal-gods set in motion the central questions of the conversation concerning the relations between death and eras, art and nature, acquired opinion and self-knowledge, love of speeches and love of dialectics, and writing and living speech. It is precisely their capacity for illuminating the danger and power of the product of writing which allows these muthoi to provide the clues for articulating the structure and content of the dialogue. When Phaedrus questions Socrates concerning his belief in the truth of the opening myth, Socrates responds through an analogy with the inscription of the Delphic oracle, that enigmatic product of writing which commands the search for self-knowledge. Socrates' recognition of the value of the myth in initiating the search for self-knowledge in fact points to the value of the written word as a potential reminder of "that which is written with knowledge in the soul" (276a). The transcendance of the danger of the written word as a replacement for memory and the realization of its potential value as a reminder is thus represented by the problem of the interpretation of muthos as acquired opinion whose truth can only be disclosed through selfdiscovery. That problem is itself reflected in the structure of the Phaedrus, for the apparent peak of the dialogue, represented by Socrates' "mythic hymn" honoring the divine madness of eras, in fact obscures the true peak of the dialogue, which emerges only after Socrates reports his central myth about the lovers of the Muses, and interprets it exactly at midday, as a warning of the need for critical examination in the struggle against the danger of slavish possession. The paradoxical reversal in the course of the speeches on love, where the divine madness of eras is revealed to be the highest moderation, is thus mirrored in the reversal of the dialogue as a whole, where the inspired love-speeches are submitted to critical examination for the evidence of art. The unity of the two parts of the dialogue emerges only through the examination of the love-speeches as the perfect models for illustrating the principles of dialectics, which constitute the standard for the true art of speaking; this unity Socrates ascribes to chance or fate, ironically concealing the Platonic art of writing. But behind Socrates' ironic divine possession stands the dialectic art of writing, which establishes the unity of the speeches on eros, just as it constitutes the resolution of the tension between eras and art underlying the two apparently autonomous parts of the dialogue as a whole. Just as Socrates ironically ascribes the artful organization of his presumably spontaneous speeches to divine inspiration, so he announces his condemnation of the art of writing in alliance with the prophecy of a royal god. The connection between the divine madness of eros and the true art of speaking provides the ground for Socrates' acceptance of the god's warning against the danger of the written word, which seems unable to fulfill the demand for "adaptation of speeches to souls." But the shamefulness of trust in the illusory clarity and firmness of the written word (275c) Socrates identifies with the slavishness of

6

Introduction

submission to rhetorical persuasion without criticaKxJetachment (277e); the apparent superiority of living speech over the dead written word must, therefore, be replaced by the superiority of all dialectic logoi, "spoken for the sake of instruction and written in the soul" (278a). In alliance with Socrates, Plato wages his struggle against all writers whose defining characteristic as a class consists in their ignorance of the dependence of all art on the principles of dialectics. This class is exemplified by the theoreticians of rhetoric, who profess to write and teach an art of speaking that provides a tekhne of persuasion dependent only on knowledge of the opinion of the many. But the Platonic defense of an art of writing must be conducted on another front in opposition to Socrates, who condemns the dead written word in favor of a commitment to the philosophic eros of conversation, which he defends in the name of an immortal god. While the apparent moderation of Socrates' refraining firom writing is revealed to be the hubris of a divine perspective that ignores the need for human art, the Platonic defense of a philosophic art of writing that appears to betray the hubris of a desire for immortality is revealed to be the true moderation of reliance on human art as the necessary path for man, who is not god. In contrast with the love of money and the sophists in the city, over against the concealment of death by art and the activity of writing, stand Socrates' disinterest in money and his presence in the sacred grove outside the city, his defense of eros and his activity of speaking. Between the poles of this conflict, which are illustrated by the content and structure of the Phaedrus, lies the space for the Platonic defense of a dialectic art of writing. The unity of the Socratic and Platonic enterprise, in its opposition to the project of the rhetoricians and sophists, is determined by the principles of dialectics, demanding knowledge of the structure of the whole and parts of the beings, and of soul, and of the effects of particular speeches on particular souls. Yet in its demand for an integrated knowledge of self-moving ever-moving soul and of the silent, immobile beings, the dialectic art seems to be nothing more than an ideal standard, based on the seemingly impossible convergence of a principle of motion and a principle of rest. This double principle shows up in the Phaedrus as a conflict between ems and death, between Socrates' erotic dialectics, with its recognition of the spontaneity and particularity of living speech, and the art of writing, with its recognition of the fixity and stability of the silent "beings beyond the heavens." But these opposing paths appear equally incapable of fulfilling the goal of the dialectic art, for the self-moving motion of soul as the ground of Socratic conversation seems to be an obstacle to the objective vision of the ideas, while the authoritative silence of the dead written word seems to preclude the activity of living thought. It is, however, precisely that convergence of motion and rest demanded by the principles of dialectics that is exemplified by the Platonic dialogue itself. For the opposition of Socratic eros and the art of writing is in fact simply a polarity constructed within the unity of the dialogue: the Platonic Socrates, who is only

Introduction

7

an image rendered "young and beautiful" by the art of writing (cf. Second Letter 314c), provides the voice through which the Platonic written word comes to life. The Platonic defense of a philosophic art of writing thus preserves that profound sense of irony which Socrates himself would be compelled to admire in the playful imitator who made him immortal.

I

P H A E D R U S T H E P R I V A T E MAN

How are you speaking, oh best Socrates? Do you believe that what Lysias composed in a long time at leisure, and he the cleverest writer of our day, I, being a private man, could recite from memory in a manner worthy of that one? Far from it; yet, I would wish for that more than for much gold. (228a)

Precisely because the Platonic dialogue is a dialogue and not a treatise, the philosophic question which constitutes its theme must emerge through the nature and opinions of a particular character in a particular situation; the dramatic representation of Socrates and Phaedrus, then, must illustrate the "adaptation of speeches to souls" which is laid down as a fundamental condition for the dialectic art of speaking and, by implication, for that product of writing which claims to be an imitation of dialectic speech. If the unifying theme of the Phaedrus consists in the Platonic defense of a philosophic art of writing, that defense comes to life through the drama of Socrates' interaction with an individual whose natural response to the product of writing fulfills all the potential dangers against which the dialogue itself becomes a warning. Socrates and Phaedrus engage in a conversation about love and rhetoric because their likeness to one another consists in the love of speeches; but while Socrates must make himself into an image which Phaedrus will follow because he sees something of himself in it, he must, at the same time, uncover the innocent inconsistency of Phaedrus as a lover of speeches who has no understanding of their power. Phaedrus is a "lover of the Muses," threatened by the danger of becoming their captive; that danger is exemplified by his admiration for the written speech of Lysias with which he deceptively lures Socrates into their private conversation. Phaedrus's delight in the product of writing as an amusement for leisure hours betrays him as the perfect victim of the poet, the speechwriter, and the law-writer, hence the perfect model of their power and danger. Socrates demonstrates his knowledge of Phaedrus's nature by finally identifying him as a mere messenger commanded to report his conversation with Socrates in the grove of the nymphs to the writer Lysias in the heart of the city. The unacknowledged influence of public opinion beneath his apparent commitment to privacy, the transparent coyness of his identifi-

Phaedrus the Private Man

9

cation with the role of the passive beloved, render Phaedrus the proper intermediary in the contest between Lysias and Socrates—between the rhetorical art of Lysias's nonlover and the erotic dialectics of Socrates' divine lover. But Phaedrus is the appropriate interlocuter for illustrating the theoretical issue of the dialogue only because his own character and interests point beyond themselves to the Platonic defense of a philosophic art of writing, which emerges as the true mediation between human art and divine eros.

T T H E Phaedrus

is AMONG THOSE PLATONIC DIALOGUES WHOSE TITLE IS THE

name of the chief or sole individual with whom Socrates converses.1 Even before establishing the subject of their investigation, Socrates expresses his interest in Phaedrus himself; by the conclusion of their encounter, however, Socrates treats Phaedrus as a mere intermediary, commanded to deliver the message of the dialogue to its intended audience: Lysias and the speechwriters, Homer and the poets, Solon and the law-writers. If this conversation is appropriately addressed, finally, to those classes of writers responsible for shaping the opinions of the political community, 2 it is nevertheless transmitted through a private individual, whose interests center on the subject of love, the care of the body, and an appreciation of speech as mere recreation. Phaedrus's status as interlocuter thus raises a fundamental problem of interpretation, for the conversation which Socrates shares with Phaedrus points, from the outset, beyond Phaedrus, just as its themes of love, rhetoric, and dialectics point beyond themselves to that which reveals their unity. The dialogue begins with Socrates' question concerning the source and goal of Phaedrus's movement: "Dear Phaedrus, to where and from where?" While Phaedrus, in the company of Socrates, spends his time at a grove sacred to the nymphs and the river god, he begins his day in the very heart of the city, entertained by a feast of Lysias, a wearing away (diatribe) of empty time. 3 Phaedrus himself is in motion, but Socrates wishes to understand that motion by discovering the stability of its source and its goal. Both the source and the goal of Phaedrus's motion, however, lie outside himself; considered in isolation from the influences which determine his own direction, Phaedrus seems incapable of representing that "self-moving motion" which Socrates later identifies as the being and logos of soul (cf. 245e). While Phaedrus is eager to share Lysias's feast with Socrates, on the condition of his having leisure to hear it, Socrates transforms this condition into a matter "higher than business" (227b). 4 In betraying his love of speeches for the sake of amusement, Phaedrus comes to light as an individual who thrives on freedom and leisure without redeeming those conditions through the practice of philoso-

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Plato's Phaedrus

phy.5 Socrates, in contrast, reveals his love of speech as an urgent and most serious matter;6 but the playfulness of Socrates' attention to the serious importance of sharing Lysias's feast even Phaedrus discerns (cf. 234d). The irony in Socrates' elevation of his encounter with Phaedrus to a matter "higher than business" he betrays in concluding their discussion by identifying it as mere amusement (paidia, cf. 278b). In his initial, seemingly arbitrary, remark on the serious importance of the playful rhetorical speech that Phaedrus admires, Socrates ironically foreshadows the theme of the dialogue as a whole. For just as Socrates later discerns the paidia of the love-speeches he shares with Phaedrus only by recognizing the serious value of the principles of art which they reveal (cf. 26 5d), he silently indicates that his apparent condemnation of the necessary playfulness of the written word is in fact the only condition for the recognition of its serious value (cf. 277e-278b). Phaedrus meets Socrates at the walls of the city because he seeks, on the advice of the physician Acumenus, unwearying exercise on the country roads.7 While Socrates suggests a walk along the Illisus, Phaedrus, barefoot in the hot summer sun, readily agrees. If shoes represent the arts and the city, 8 Phaedrus joins Socrates only this day in a retreat from that sphere. What for Phaedrus is a matter of adapting to the physical necessities of the environment, however, is for Socrates a sign of independence from those necessities.9 Spotting a lofty plane tree with shade and a moderate breeze as a fitting destination, Phaedrus betrays the subordination of his desire to hear speeches to his desire for physical comfort. It is because of the heat of the noonday sun that Phaedrus wants to continue the conversation at the conclusion of Socrates' first speech (242a), and only because the heat has grown gentler that he is finally willing to leave (279b). Phaedrus considers Socrates the perfect audience for the enigmatic lovespeech composed by Lysias; his assurance of Socrates' passionate interest seems to imply his memory of the encounter represented in the Symposium,10 where Phaedrus is "father of the speech," the man who complains that Eros is the one god with no proper eulogy in his honor (Symposium 177c). u Phaedrus's desire for a eulogy of Eros is announced through the voice of the physician Eryximachus, whose orders Phaedrus follows without critical detachment, as a slave follows those of his master.12 Phaedrus's friendship with the physicians13 and his characterization as one of the lighter drinkers at the banquet, betray his willingness to practice moderation only for the sake of bodily well-being. But while he seems, therefore, to be tied to what is most private, the guidance for that concern comes only from the accepted opinion of those who claim to possess an art: Phaedrus's apparently natural self-interest is penetrated, without acknowledgment, by the opinions of the public experts he reveres. The speech with which Phaedrus initiates the Symposium is, in fact, a selfeulogy, for his description of Eros mirrors his own position: Eros is the first of the gods and hence occupies the position of greatest honor. It is the authority of age which gives Eros his honor, and his honor which makes him the source of our

Phaedrus the Private Man

11

greatest blessings (Symposium 178c). The signs of the power of love Phaedrus finds in the feelings of shame for the shameful and love of honor for the beautiful; the effects of love are determined by appearance and reputation: not truth but honor, not guilt but shame before others. These signs, as Phaedrus insists, are necessary for the performance of great and beautiful deeds, both in the individual and in the city (178d). 14 So far is Phaedrus from awareness of any conflict between the condition of eros and those of the political community, that he believes the perfect realization of each will necessarily coincide. Phaedrus's "best city," therefore, consists of a band of lovers, motivated by competition for honor and avoidance of the shameful. The ideal effect of love is that spiritedness exemplified by the menos of Homer's heroes (Symposium 179b);15 the mildmannered Phaedrus gives honor to the god Eros by identifying him as the source of inspired rage. The inspiration which Socrates will present as the lover's active pursuit of the god in whose footsteps he follows (cf. Phaedrus 248a), Phaedrus presents as the lover's passive receptivity of the courage breathed into him by a god. But the unmistakable mark of true love Phaedrus finds in the willingness for self-sacrifice, manifest in Alcestis's desire to die for Admetus, and Achilles' determination to give up his life for Patroclus (Symposium 179b-c). Phaedrus's conviction that death is the ultimate test of love is brought under examination in Socrates' report of the speech of Diotima, in which eros is understood as the principle through which the mortal nature seeks, as for as possible, to be immortal (Symposium 207d); the self-sacrifice of Alcestis and Achilles is thus identified, in Diotima's speech, not as a longing for death, but as the desire for a "deathless memory" (208d). Phaedrus's own understanding of the honor earned by those who embrace death as the testimony of love makes him, as Socrates announces in the Phaedrus, the appropriate audience for a myth about the Muses, who punish their self-forgetful lovers with death (Phaedrus 259b—d). It is not, however, the self-sacrificer in general on whom Phaedrus bestows his praise; Achilles, the beloved, must be admired more than Alcestis, the lover, for the highest honor belongs, not to the lover who sacrifices himself out of the compulsion of desire, but to the beloved who, in all his perfection, freely chooses to give up his life for his lover (Symposium 180b). In his identification of the response of the beloved as the sign of the power of Eros, Phaedrus in fact betrays the projection of his own self-image as passive beloved. The illusion involved in mistaking Eros as beloved rather than as lover is uncovered in Socrates' narration of the speech of Diotima, which illuminates the paradoxical character of a god who must represent, not the fullness and perfection of an object of desire, but the incompleteness of desire itself. The illusory identification of Eros with the beloved is revealed, through the speeches which Phaedrus and Socrates exchange in their private encounter, to be the common assumption of every love-speech, which consists in the attempt to flatter the passive beloved in order to make him become an active lover. Through his self-identification as beloved, Phaedrus shows himself to be the fitting victim

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Plato's Phaedrus

of the persuasive power of such erotic rhetoric."Precisely that susceptibility is displayed by Phaedrus's admiration for the clever speech of Lysias addressed by a "nonlover" to "one of the beautiful," which Socrates finally explains as the lover's attempt to attain the favors of his beloved by making himself into an image of the beloved, that is, the nonlover (cf. Phaedrus 237b). In the attempt to obtain Socrates' desire for sharing the speech he admires, Phaedrus coyly contrasts himself, as private individual (idiotes), with Lysias, "cleverest writer of the day." By attributing the excellence of Lysias's work to its composition over a long time at his leisure (228a), Phaedrus betrays his reductive understanding of the value of the potential disinterestedness of the written work, which may indeed depend upon its freedom from urgency. In expressing his own response to Lysias's work, Phaedrus reveals the same reductive understanding, for what he desires more than gold is the ability to repeat the speech from memory. 17 Not the ability to think, to understand, to discuss, to defend, to attack, but only to recite from memory is what he most admires, and he finds no higher praise of that desire than its priority over his love of money. Through his association of money and leisure, writing and memorization, Phaedrus in fact unwittingly points to the true grounds for Lysias's activity of writing and for the condemnation of the written word which Socrates expresses.18 Whether the love of speech that Phaedrus professes is one which Socrates shares, Socrates can discover only by looking through the veil of Phaedrus's coyness. Socrates therefore enters into the activity of seduction by asserting the interdependence of his own self-knowledge and his knowledge of Phaedrus: "Oh Phaedrus, if I don't know Phaedrus, I have forgotten myself' (228a). Socrates can, apparently, possess such knowledge either because Phaedrus is a mirrorimage of himself, or because he mistakes Phaedrus for such an image, or because Phaedrus temporarily becomes such an image in the presence of Socrates. If "love is of such a nature that it changes man into the things he loves," 19 Phaedrus and Socrates would follow each other because each sees in the other the projection of himself, while once following, he is set in the motion of becoming like what he follows.20 Today Phaedrus is fortunately barefoot, but Socrates is almost always so; the self-knowledge which Socrates desires may perhaps demand an uncovering of the illusory likeness which he claims to share with Phaedrus. Socrates does not address Phaedrus directly but speaks of him in the third person, giving Phaedrus a separate image of himself to observe. Socrates forms a community with Phaedrus in order to examine an objectified image of him; he creates for Phaedrus that necessary internal otherness which Phaedrus's innocent coyness seems to preclude. Socrates thus implies that the knower is not the experiencer but the observer. The fulfillment of this implication, however, depends upon the Platonic dialogue itself, as a product of writing; as an imitation of the encounter between Socrates and Phaedrus, the dialogue provides for its reader the distance necessary for overcoming the partial perspectives of the participants represented within it.

Phaedrus the Private Man

13

It is only this distance which illuminates the tension within Socrates' implication of his own likeness to Phaedrus. For the description of Phaedrus's activity is markedly unlike anything Socrates ever reveals of himself. Phaedrus not only listened once, but commanded Lysias, who was easily persuaded, to repeat (228a-b); Socrates, presumably, would have been asking questions, not commanding repetition. Phaedrus, unsatisfied, at last took the book to examine what he most desired, then, when tired, took his customary walk outside the walls hoping to practice reciting the speech from memory (228a-b); Socrates would only have continued the conversation with the writer of the speech, hoping to arrive together at some understanding of the nature of the subject under discussion. Phaedrus's interest in Lysias's speech is absorbed by his desire to memorize it; Socrates' interest in the speech is stimulated by the perplexities raised in thinking through its inexplicit assumptions. The internal division within the love of speeches which Socrates shares with Phaedrus thus hints at the ambiguous value and danger of writing, for the potentially repeatable identity of the written word has no necessary connection with the identity of shared understanding. Through his particular response to Lysias's speech, Phaedrus is thus shown to be the appropriate character for illustrating the essential ambiguity of the written word. Socrates accuses Phaedrus of desiring to recite the speech even if no one would willingly listen;21 he is a deceiver who poses as one not desiring to speak, like a lover pretending to be a nonlover. This accusation Phaedrus interprets as a threat from Socrates. 32 Phaedrus seems to understand compulsion as being in absolute opposition to pure willingness, acknowledging neither the possible alternative of persuasion nor the element of compulsion inherent in desire. It is because Phaedrus acknowledges no intermediary between willingness and force, because he is completely unaware of the power of persuasion, that he is its perfect victim. He therefore willingly submits to Socrates' playful threat of force by offering to replace the feast given by Lysias with his own rearrangement, in condensation (228e). If Phaedrus displays his willingness to practice deception in his eagerness to perform his own rhetorical gymnastics (228e), it is precisely the nature of the written work he conceals beneath his cloak that creates the condition for such deception; Phaedrus admires the cleverness of the very speech that mirrors his own deceitful character. While Phaedrus has a true opinion of the speech as a rhetorical showpiece, his refusal to acknowledge its status as a "game" of writing betrays his own ignorance of the deceptive power of the speech which constitutes the paradigm of writing in this dialogue on writing. Recognizing Phaedrus's concealment of the speech beneath his cloak, just as he recognized Phaedrus's concealment of his desire to speak beneath the appearance of self-deprecation, Socrates refuses to allow Phaedrus to take responsibility

for the deceptive speech which reflects his own character. He therefore insists on hearing Lysias himself (228e), whose presence he identifies with that of his written work. Socrates forces Phaedrus into the role of actor with Lysias as poet precisely because this role exhibits not only Phaedrus's character, but the nature

14

Plato's Phaedrus

of the product of writing, waiting in silence to be^brought to life. Socrates begins his playful threats by placing responsibility for the compulsion to speak on Phaedrus himself, separating that Phaedrus from the external Phaedrus who feigns unwillingness; he concludes by attributing responsibility to Lysias for the speech recited though not necessarily understood by Phaedrus as intermediary. While Socrates repeatedly commands Phaedrus to lead the way on their path along the Ilissus (229a, 229b, 230a), Phaedrus, lover of muthoi (cf. 259b), finally asks Socrates whether they have arrived at the spot where Boreas is said to have carried off Oreithyia. Socrates, a "stranger outside the city" (230d), knows exactly where the altar of Boreas marks the location of the mythological event (229c), while Phaedrus mistakenly believes they stand at the very spot: "Is it not from here? for the stream appears pleasing and pure and transparent, fit for girls to play by" (229b). Without being aware of it, Phaedrus himself anticipates his own identification with the mountain nymph Oreithyia, 23 for Socrates will soon try to "carry off' Phaedrus with beautiful speeches, eliciting Phaedrus's promise of a statue in his honor (235d-e, 236d). Socrates renders Phaedrus's mythological allusion even more appropriate by adding a reference to Pharmakeia, companion of Oreithyia (229c), just as he later claims that the charm which captures his attention and lures him on is not Phaedrus himself, but Phaedrus playing with the drug (pharmakon) of the speech by Lysias (230d, 234d, cf. 274e). While the myth Phaedrus recalls serves as an image of the natural seduction scene taking place, Socrates' supplement hints at the role in that scene played by the seductive drug of the written work.24 Phaedrus's desire to invest the natural beauty of the scene with the spirit of a mythological seduction establishes the pattern of the dialogue as a whole. Just as the discussions on speaking and writing will be introduced by appropriate myths addressed to Phaedrus, so here the myth Phaedrus introduces, which tells the tale of a mountain nymph playing with her companion Pharmakeia and carried off by the god of the north wind, provides a prelude for the theme of the lovespeeches which follow, In his wonder about their natural setting, Phaedrus only wants to know if Socrates is persuaded of the truth of the muthologema, whether or not the event actually occurred. In response to Phaedrus's question, Socrates declares himself out of place (atopos), for, unlike the "wise men" (sophoi), he does not simply disbelieve in the truth of the myth. If he were a sophisticated disbeliever, Socrates suggests, he might interpret the story of a maiden carried off by the passionate god Boreas as merely a concealed account of a woman pushed off a rock by a blast of wind (229d); a legend about eros would be interpreted by the artful sophoi as a concealed image of death. The "truth" of the muthologema would be identified as merely a naive personification by those whose cleverness makes them blind to the inner experience for which the myth creates a poetic image. In contrast with the sophoi, who attempt to rationalize a mythological tale as the image of a natural occurrence, Socrates looks for the worth of the myth in its hidden understanding of soul. He himself is moved by the urgency of the de-

Phaedrus the Private Man

15

mand, "according to the Delphic inscription, to know myself (229e). Having no leisure for the rustic wisdom of the sophoi, Socrates replaces their clever but laborious interpretations of the Centaur, Chimaera, Gorgon, Pegasus, and the others, with the investigation of whether he is himself "a monster more manytangled and raging than Typhon, 2S or a tamer and simpler animal, partaking by nature of a divine and quiet lot" (230a). Socrates is primarily concerned with his ignorance of the nature of his own hubris, which, according to his own image, must be either bestial or divine. If muthos represents the poetic wisdom of man's self-understanding, Socrates demonstrates the necessity of its subjection to critical examination in the service of self-knowledge; his model is the Delphic inscription (gramma), whose elucidation requires from Socrates a lifetime of investigation.26 Between the sophistic rationalization of the muthos of Boreas and Oreithyia as a concealed account of death, and Socrates' acceptance of it as an account of eros, stands Phaedrus's concern with the muthos as an object of true opinion. In the process of expanding Phaedrus's understanding of truth, Socrates provides a model for the reader of that muthos represented by the drama of the dialogue as a whole. While Socrates is about to engage in his own production of a many-tangled monster as image of the soul, he first offers his advice on how to listen to the muthoi with which he, as artful rhetorician, attempts to "lead souls through words" (cf. 261a). Just at the end of this discussion of myths, Socrates and Phaedrus arrive at the sacred resting place where they will lie down for the love-play of their speeches (230a). Unusually aware of his surroundings, Socrates praises the beauty of the katagoge to which Phaedrus has guided them. 27 He admires the lofty plane tree and shady willow, the cool spring and pleasant breeze, the statues of nymphs and of Achelous, the shrill summer music of the cicadas, 28 and the grass thick enough to lie down on. 2 9 Just after this inspired praise for the natural beauty of the grove, Phaedrus declares Socrates a wonder, most out of place, "artlessly appearing to be led like some kind of stranger and not a native" (230d); Socrates does not belong abroad, not even outside the walls of the town. 30 Phaedrus, however, shows no understanding of the connection between Socrates' interest in erotics and his attachment to the city, which Socrates explains as the result of his love of learning, not satiable by country places and trees, but only by the men in town (230d). 31 The unconscious irony of Phaedrus's reproach against Socrates is illuminated by the conscious irony of Socrates' later imitation. When Socrates praises the beauty of the grove, Phaedrus calls him amazing, artlessly appearing as a stranger outside the city (230d); when Phaedrus later begs to continue the conversation, complaining of the heat from the noonday sun, Socrates calls him "godlike about speeches and artlessly amazing" (242a). While Socrates' praise for the natural beauty of their resting spot conceals the truth of his love of learning, Phaedrus's professed love of speeches seems to conceal his actual concern with the environment. This reversal points to the problem of the relation between the natural beauty of a silent vision and the beauty of speech, which is finally transformed to

16

Plato's Phaedrus

the problem of the-relation between the beautiful beloved and the persuasive lover (cf. 255b-d), The drama of the dialogue provides at the outset an ironic clue for the reconciliation of this conflict: Socrates has been led outside the city by Phaedrus's bait, the pharmakon of a silent speech in a book. Once Phaedrus has gratified Socrates with his recital of the speech of Lysias, Socrates responds by suggesting the possibility of another speech, different and not worse, though he has forgotten how and from whom he heard it (23 5d). Phaedrus commands Socrates not to reveal its source, but only to deliver the speech itself. He tries to tempt Socrates with a promise of his own, like that of the nine archons, to set up at Delphi a golden life-size image, not only of himself but of Socrates as well. 32 The love of honor and of gold, characterizing Phaedrus's promise, stands in marked contrast to Socrates' later praise of the divine madness of the oracle of Delphi (244a) and to the lover's worship of the beloved himself, "like a statue" (251a). When Socrates imitates Phaedrus's dissembling, offering a rearrangement of the necessary argument of Lysias's speech, Phaedrus enthusiastically responds with the promise of another immortal memorial, a statue of beaten metal next to that of the Cypselids at Olympia. 33 The temptation of political fame seems to Phaedrus the proper lure for seducing Socrates to speak about love in this most private setting. Socrates responds to Phaedrus's threats and promises by imitating Phaedrus's former coyness, claiming the inadequacy of his private status (idiotes) in contrast with that of the poet Lysias (236d). Undeterred by Socrates' self-adornment, Phaedrus finally makes use of the compulsion of desire; he threatens to withhold what he believes Socrates loves most unless Socrates delivers to him the treasure he claims to hold within himself (236e). The lover's promise of future benefits through oaths and prayers, which Socrates is about to condemn in speech (241a), Phaedrus now enacts in deed. Searching for the god to guard his present oath, Phaedrus swears by the. plane tree which shelters them never to read or report another speech unless Socrates produces one of his own. 34 To the compulsion of desire, ironic as it may be, Socrates at last submits, granting his favors as if he were a prostitute. Imitating the shameful speech hidden under Phaedrus's cloak, Socrates cloaks his own head so as to avoid the shame of looking at Phaedrus or being seen by him. 35 But Phaedrus is uninterested in Socrates' dramatic flourishes; as long as the speech itself is delivered, the conditions for it, the intention behind it, its living context, can all be ignored. Considerations of distinctions in purpose, of the difference between speech directed toward grasping the truth and that directed merely toward persuasion, are immaterial to Phaedrus. In the transition between the conclusion of Lysias's speech and the delivery of his own, Socrates makes himself into an image which Phaedrus may follow because he sees something of himself in it. Once Phaedrus has granted his favors by delivering the speech of Lysias, "the shell has fallen the other way" (cf. 241b) and the roles of pursuer and pursued are exchanged; the game between lover and beloved which Socrates describes in his first speech is thus reflected in the intricate mirror-play which ensues between the two lovers of speeches. Phaed-

Phaedrus the Private Man

17

rus's final praising of Lysias's speech for its excellence with regard to "names" (234c) duplicates his initial praise of it as most clever in its advocacy of the "nonlover" (227c); Socrates' response that he follows in the divine frenzy (234d) recalls his description of Phaedrus's desire for someone to share in his revel (228b); Phaedrus's admiration for the comprehensiveness of the speech (234e) matches his earlier claim of inability to compete with its skillfulness (228a); Socrates' restricted criticism of its rhetorical redundancy (235a) echoes his original projected criticism of its content (227c-d); Phaedrus's promise of erecting statues at Delphi and Olympia (235d, 236b) recalls Socrates' praise of the statues of nymphs and Achelous marking their sacred spot (230b); Socrates' concession of producing a rearrangement of the necessary argument (236a) reflects Phaedrus's concession of offering a summary (228d); Phaedrus's imitation of Socrates' vaunted knowledge of Phaedrus (236c) is followed by Socrates' imitation of Phaedrus's self-deprecation as simply a private man (236d); Phaedrus's oath by the plane tree (236e) recalls Socrates' praise of it (230b); Socrates' submission to Phaedrus's threat of withholding future speeches (236e) echoes his original selfdefense as a lover of learning (230d); finally, Socrates' covering his head in shame (237a) mirrors Phaedrus's concealment of the speech of Lysias under the folds of his cloak (228d). The ironic tension within the apparent reiteration of themes in the scene preceding Lysias's speech by the scene preceding Socrates' speech in fact explodes the alleged likeness uniting Socrates with Phaedrus. The interdependence of self-knowledge and knowledge of others which Socrates prizes so highly is precisely what Phaedrus lacks. His concern with bodily health, his evaluation of speeches as proper pleasures for leisure hours, his removal from any sense of urgency or necessity confirm Phaedrus's self-understanding as a very private individual. But his unquestioning acceptance of authority, his concern with reputation and appreciation of political honor show that Phaedrus's self-deceptive pursuit of the noble pleasures of privacy lacks the critical awareness of the public forces upholding and shaping that pursuit. It is this condition which allows Phaedrus to praise Lysias's persuasive speech about love, later claiming that there is no private use for the art of rhetoric (261b) and to insist that the really powerful force of the art of rhetoric is manifest only in public assemblies (268a). Phaedrus is a lover of the Muses who does not know of their power over men (cf. 259b); in the attempt to bring Phaedrus to an awareness of the forces which move him, Socrates must share with him an examination of the art of writing. This examination serves to reveal Phaedrus's ignorance of himself, his servitude to the authority of acquired opinion, his trust in the external without internal recollection (cf. 257a). Socrates' knowledge of Phaedrus's soul is the reflection of philosophic knowledge of the status of the written word. Just as Phaedrus excitedly reports to Socrates the universal assumption of the rhetoricians—that the art of speaking requires no knowledge of the just, the good, or the beautiful, but only knowledge of what will seem so (260a)—Socrates discovers in Phaedrus the proper vehicle for his own message in response. In

18

Plato's Phaedrus

recognition of this ppportunity, Socrates takes on the role of divine inspiration, attempting to possess Phaedrus, who, like the rhapsode possessed by the poet possessed by the Muse, may then repeat his message to the proper audience (cf. 277e). 36 Socrates enacts this playful enslavement of Phaedrus in the course of their encounter37 because he can communicate with Lysias only through the mediation of Phaedrus, who is torn between them (cf. 257b). The speech which Socrates delivers under Phaedrus's compulsion, praising the moderation of "acquired opinion striving toward the best" over the hubris of "natural desire for pleasure" (237e-238a), must then represent the necessary mediation between the condemnation of ems by Lysias's calculating nonlover and the glorification of eros by Socrates' mad lover. Socrates' concern with Phaedrus is determined by his understanding of the necessary dialectic mediation between eros and noneros. Behind the veil of Socrates' interest in Phaedrus lies the reality of Lysias's presence through his product of writing: "For I suspect you have the speech itself. If that is so, believe this about me: while being very fond of you, in the presence of Lysias himself I have no intention of lending myself to you to practice on. But come, show it" (228d-e).

I I

THE M U L T I C O L O R E D SPEECH OF LYSIAS

Do you really think I will try to speak, against the wisdom of that one, more multicolored? (236b)

The illusion of a private encounter between two lovers of speeches is suddenly exploded by Socrates' recognition of the presence of Lysias through his product of writing, a "drug" admired for the multicolored (poikilos) wisdom it displays, Lysias, ghostwriter for the Athenian law courts, is the fitting

fabricator of the speech which deceptively hides its character as a product of writing beneath the mask of a direct address by a declared nonlover seeking the favors of his beloved. Lysias's praise of nonlove, as a relationship of exchange for the mutual benefit of two contracting parties, mirrors the nature of his activity of writing as an instrument in the service of moneymaking, whose effectiveness depends upon its power of concealment. The paradigm of writing in the dialogue on writing, which consists appropriately in a condemnation of eros, elicits Socrates' struggle in the defense of eros, although Socrates himself admits that the deceptive and one-sided speech necessarily expresses some part of the truth: the madness of eros may be justifiably condemned for its lack of artful control and for its arbitrary selectivity, hence its danger as the fundamental obstacle to universality. But this condemnation of eros is based upon the illusion of the speech as an actual address, for the very notion of a true nonlover would seem to preclude the possibility of desire for the favors of a particular beloved; the nonlover who cannot speak to any particular individual must represent, it seems, the politician who woos the many as one, offering his services in the interests of the demos. The tension between the private particularity of eros and the apparent universality of the demagogue wooing the demos is appropriately revealed through the tension between the appearance of the speech as an actual address and its reality as a product of writing, for it is not only the content of the speech by Lysias, but the essential nature of the written word which constitutes an address to everyone in general and to no one in particular. The seemingly self-contradictory speech of Lysias thus reflects the silence of the written word in its nonerotic relation to

another

20

Plato's Phaedrus a public audience. The content of the Speech, which cannot be brought to life as an actual address, calls into question the justification of the lover's demand for reciprocity in love, and in doing so points to the nonmutual erotic relationship between the lover of ideas and the object of desire which he seeks. The necessary silence of Lysias's written imitation of the speech of the nonlover thus emerges as a representation of the silence and immutability of the "beings beyond the heavens" in granting favors to the lover of ideas. The multicolored speech of Lysias, with its praise for the objectivity of the nonlover over against the madness of the lover, ironically conceals the germs of the Platonic defense of the art of writing. Just as the sophist's desire for the acquisition of money mirrors the philosopher's desire for the acquisition of wisdom, the tekhne of Lysias, which defends the moderation of nonlove in the service of desire, ironically mirrors the Platonic tekhne, which defends the necessity of nonlove for the transformation of human eros for a particular individual to the divine eros of dialectics.

and Phaedrus lie down to read. At the conclusion of the recital Socrates insists that he is overcome {ekplagenai) by the daemonic speech of Lysias because of watching Phaedrus "made bright while reading it" and following in his divine frenzy (234d). 1 It is not Phaedrus, however, but the feast which he offers that has lured Socrates to the fountain of the nymphs; not Phaedrus/Oreithyia but Lysias/Pharmakeia attracts Socrates' attention: "But you seem to haive discovered the pharmakon to bring me out. For as they lead hungry creatures holding out a branch or some fruit, thus it appears that you, holding out speeches in books, would lead me all over Attica or wherever else you wish" (230d-e). 2 The speech of Lysias that Phaedrus conceals in his left hand beneath his cloak is introduced as an occasion for deception; the paradigm of writing is presented in light of its power for deceit. Beyond the innocent proclivity for disguise that marks Phaedrus's character lies the intentionally cloaked nature of Lysias's work, whose effect always depends upon the success of deception. The choice of Lysias as the fitting representative for the power of deception seems to be motivated by Lysias's historical identity as ghostwriter for the litigants of the Athenian law courts.3 The universal invisibility of the writer beneath the mask of his written work is, in the case of Lysias, doubly present because of his political status as a noncitizen of Athens, interested in the affairs of the city but barred from active participation.4 Lysias's art, however, is pursued less in the public interest of the

Multicolored Speech of Lysias

21

city than in the self-interest of monetary gain; his rhetorical skill is rarely directed to the deliberations of the public assembly, being for the most part focused on the legal disputes of private citizens protecting their own possessions and reputations.5 Without prolonging the centuries-old controversy as to whether the speech recited by Phaedrus is an actual work of the historical Lysias,6 it may be assumed, for reasons which should become increasingly obvious, that a speech which so perfectly coincides with the specific function of Plato's own arguments and dramatic purposes must be the result of art, not of chance. The speech whose style and content might so easily be attributed to Lysias himself deserves the crucial position it has in the dialogue only because it introduces precisely the themes which determine the organic unity of the dialogue as a whole; the speech attributed to Lysias, no less than the speech Socrates ironically attributes to the poet Stesichorus (244a), exhibits the "speechwriting necessity" (cf. 264b-c) which could only issue from the Platonic art of writing. Insofar as this principle can be generalized, the allegedly authentic speeches incorporated into the dialogues would represent Plato's own ability to set forth the positions of his historical characters—like his fictitious ones—more succinctly and appropriately than would be possible by simply interjecting what might happen to be their actual work.7 Lysias's fame in antiquity as a successful speechwriter rests on his ability to make the written speech reflect the character of the speaker who recites it as his own.8 The ability which is said to be the essence of Lysias's skill thus constitutes a link with the art of imitation practiced by Plato in producing the speeches which reflect the characters of the various figures in the dialogues. Like the love of speeches which unites Socrates with Phaedrus, however, the art of imitation which unites Plato with Lysias must be examined in light of its internal articulations. The complexity of needs and desires which are suggested at the conclusion of the Phaedrus as the motivation for the Platonic art of writing, cannot be identified with the need and desire for money which is suggested as the primary motivation for Lysias's art of writing (cf. 264c-d, 266c). In order to fulfill its purpose, the written work of Lysias must conceal its character as a product of writing.9 If, however, the necessary concealment of the writer behind his written work constitutes the common ground for the art of Plato and that of Lysias, the concealment which Plato practices in the attempt to overcome the dangers of the dead written word must be distinguished from the concealment which Lysias practices for reasons of self-interest dictated by economic and political advantage. If the written speech attributed to Lysias in the Phaedrus is intended to reflect the character of the speaker who recites it, it should provide a minor in which Phaedrus's image is cast. The fitting equivalent, for Phaedrus's nature, to a legal speech of accusation or defense, or a public speech of council for political action, would be the persuasive speech to his beloved of a coy lover parading as a nonlover. The nonlover, whose role Phaedrus so readily accepts, identifies his own self-interest, in the narrowest sense, with the self-interest of the nonloving

22

Plato's Phaedrus

beloved whose fa vers he seeks; he therefore condemns the madness of love, both in its human and unacknowledged superhuman manifestations. Certainly Phaedrus, who identifies himself with the passive beloved, could find nothing more clever than a speech about love written from the viewpoint of the beloved, a speech whose content concerns the lack of justification for the beloved's returning love to his lover. In spite of everything Socrates later claims in his criticism, Lysias's speech appears to have great persuasive power, over Phaedrus at least (cf. 234c). 10 In the central section of the dialogue Socrates suggests that the greater the extent of ambiguity in the word, hence in its referent, the greater the power of rhetoric to deceive (263b). The power of Lysias's speech must, then, rest on some unanalyzed ambiguity; that ambiguity, as Socrates and Phaedrus later agree, is the quality of eros which allows it both to be condemned as harmful to beloved and lover alike, and to be praised as the greatest of goods (263c). The ambiguity of eros provides the necessary foundation for the rhetorical persuasiveness of Lysias's speech precisely insofar as that ambiguity is successfully concealed; the ground of Lysias's deceit can be illuminated, therefore, only through an understanding of the ambiguity of eros, which requires a critical analysis of the lovespeeches, based on the activity of collection and division (cf. 265d-266b). u Only on the basis of that subsequent critical analysis can Socrates justify the fundamental principle of rhetoric that allows him to accept the "necessary argument" of Lysias's speech while attacking only its rhetorical form (236a). The argument of the speech which Socrates is compelled to accept is its attempt to "praise the reasonableness of the one," presumably the nonlover, and to "blame the unreasonableness of the other," presumably the lover (236a). If, however, Socrates' first speech results from a criticism of the rhetorical form of Lysias's speech separate from its argument, his second speech demonstrates the inseparability of this argument from the structure of its arrangement; despite Socrates' initial claim of attending only to the rhetorical form of the speech and not to its contents (235a), the defectiveness of the formal organization of Lysias's speech is finally shown to be determined by the one-sided falsification of its necessary argument. Socrates begins his criticism of the speech with the claim that Lysias seems to say the same thing two or three times without any apparent logical order, "exhibiting his ability to speak now one way and again in another way, saying both excellently" (235a); Socrates ironically states this very claim two or three times. 12 Socrates' criticism seems to imply his disapproval of the unnecessary redundancy and nondeductive character of Lysias's arguments; but that apparent implication conceals Socrates' awareness of the true complexity of this multicolored speech (cf. 277c). While Phaedrus remains unaware of this complexity, the reader of the dialogue is warned that the words which appear to "always say the same" (cf. 27 5d) may express a multitude of meanings demanding distinct levels of interpretation. When Socrates later asks Phaedrus if he knows of some "speechwriting necessity" for the way Lysias "put these together one after another," Phaedrus

Multicolored Speech of Lysias

23

protests that Socrates flatters him in believing him able to perceive accurately this principle of order in his work (264b-c). But Phaedrus thus points to the compelling reasons for the composition of the speech, for Lysias's apparent artlessness in feet conceals the character of the speech as a written work based on the traditional rhetorical arrangement of introduction, narrative, argument, and conclusion. 13 The apparent inadequacy of the rhetorical form which Socrates criticizes is precisely what impresses Phaedrus as a sign of the exhaustiveness of the speech, which he considers unsurpassable, for no one could speak "more fully or worthily" (234e). Because Lysias does indeed seem to say the same thing again and again in different ways, the structure of the speech remains hidden beneath its appearance of random spontaneity. The clues for its principle of organization, however, are provided in Socrates' later examination of the speech, in the course of the discussion on the conditions for an art of rhetoric (cf. 264a). The opening (231a), in which "Lysias attempts to swim backwards against the current of the speech, starting from what should be its end" (264a), constitutes a logical summary of the centra] argument. The remainder, which seems to be "thrown out in a flood" (264b), consists of a loose enumeration with no deductive structure, as is confirmed by the unusual frequency of purely mechanical connectives in transitions between sentences. 14 Lysias begins with the assumption that his argument is already known: "About my affairs you know, and how I believe these things to be advantageous for us you have heard" (231c). The inconsistency of the speech which follows is first indicated by its opening statement, which has the character of a proper conclusion. 15 The justification for this self-contradictory opening, which seems to be a conclusion, lies in the assumption of previous familiarity with the argument of the speech. But the status of the speech as a product of writing, whose repeatability justifies its assumption of prior familiarity and its consequent circular form of presentation, is necessarily concealed by the speaker who utters it. For the concealed character of the speech, exhibiting the disinterested detachment of a written display, would contradict the speaker's initial statement of his persuasive intention: "I deserve not to fail in what I ask just because I do not happen to be your lover" (231a). In defense of this claim to his own worth, the nonlover contrasts his own motivation with that suggested by the common opinion about lovers: "For lovers regret their well-doing when their desire ceases, but there is no time when it is fitting for nonlovers to regret. For they do well to the best of their ability, not out of necessity but willingly, according to their view of what is best for their own interests" (231a). Lovers are to be distrusted because they provide benefits out of passion, which is necessarily unenduring; when they eventually calculate the harm they will bring to their own interests, they will regret their unreasonable kindnesses; nonlovers, on the other hand, acting out of reason, provide benefits with regard to their own interests, and are therefore always reliable. Appropriate to the persuasive intention of the speech, the inexplicit definitions of lover and

24

Plato's Phaedrus

nonlover which constitute its fundamental premise already incorporate condemnation and praise.16 Hidden beneath these implicit definitions lies the silent assumption that health consists in the pursuit of self-interest, whereas the selfforgetfulness of passion represents an inevitably temporary state of illness. The implications of this assumption are unfolded in the loosely connected series of contentions that follows. Because nonlovers act solely from the rationality of self-interest, they avoid any conflict with neglect of personal affairs, calculation of self-injury, or quarrels with relatives, and can therefore eagerly do whatever they think will please the beloved (231b). Because lovers, on the other hand, are willing to be hated by others to please the beloved, whenever they fall in love again they will injure the old love to please the new one (231c). Lovers themselves admit the sickness of their lack of control and therefore cannot approve of the actions they committed through passion when they regain their senses (23Id). Beyond the pain experienced because of the transitory nature of erotic passion, the speaker condemns the restricted particularity of granting favors to a lover in contrast with the greater selectivity among nonlovers (23Id); he thus confirms his identification of the beloved as a nonlover whose response is assumed to be completely free from any compulsion of desire. By indicating the tension between the narrowness of individual love-relations and the public relations of friendship or political community, and hence condemning the compulsory and arbitrary selectivity of eros, the nonlover cannot help but point to the truth of its limitations. It is not the intrinsic value of the relation with a nonlover, however, which accounts for its superiority, but rather its advantage for public opinion. For the appearance of the beloved with his controlled nonlover would be indistinguishable from any innocent friendship, and would therefore not arouse the prejudices evoked by the appearance of the beloved with his lover, who would constantly attempt to show off his passion. The nonlover must, then, artfully pursue his self-gratification in secret; he thus avoids following the expressed opinions of men and instead chooses what is really best (232a). In contrast with the jealousy and possessiveness which force the lover to keep his beloved from associating with the wealthy, the educated, or anyone else possessing some good, the nonlover, favored for his excellence (presumably his wealth or education), would hate those not wishing to associate with the beloved, as though he himself were slighted by them (232c-d). The nonlover finally affirms the inconstancy of love on the basis of its foundation in "desire of the body" (23 2e), while simply assuming, in contrast, the primacy of friendship in the relationship with the nonlover. Yet the nonlover insists that even if the beloved were to grant him his favors, their friendship would not be lessened by the experience, since he would do so out of calculation and not out of passion. In the central sentence of the speech, the speaker switches to the first person, insisting that it is better to yield to "me" (233a). This sudden admission of the speaker's own self-interest immediately precedes his identification of the true superiority of the nonlover with the objectivity of his judgment. Such objectivity

Multicolored Speech of Lysias

25

is contrasted with the lover's constant praise for the words and deeds of his beloved, necessarily distorted by his fear of displeasing the beloved and by the blindness of his passion (233b). The objectivity of the nonlover ironically consists in the calculation of his own self-interest, as a guarantee for the stability of the relationship: "But if you yield to me, f shall associate with you caring not only for present pleasure, but for future advantage" (233c). Whatever the association is that Lysias praises in the name of the nonlover, he relies, for its honor and value, on identifying it with the firmness of long-lasting friendship or family ties (233d), whose motivation is nonetheless assumed to depend upon the satisfaction of mutual self-interest. By demonstrating the absence of justification in the lover's demand for requited love, the nonlover presents his own version of Socratic irony (cf. 227d); he suggests that the beloved who grants favors to lovers ought always to confer benefits, not on the best, but on the most needy (233d). In opposition to such foolishness, the speaker insists on the reasonableness of granting favors only to the most deserving, who are not only most able to repay the beloved (233e), but also most secretive about the affair (234a). Such reasonableness is confirmed by the attitude of friends or relatives, who never blame the nonlover for managing his own affairs badly (234b). Only in conclusion does the speaker confirm his seductive purpose, admitting that he does not advocate granting favors to all nonlovers, since the favors would then be worth less, and could not, moreover, be kept secret (234c). In revealing this purpose, the nonlover himself betrays the erotic particularity he had originally condemned and thus discloses his character as a concealed lover. The self-contradictory character of the speech introduced in its opening statement is thus confirmed in its conclusion: "From it never harm but advantage to both should come" (234c). If the unidentified subject of this final statement were understood as eros, the conclusion of the speech would contradict its prior argument, describing the necessary harm of the erotic relation; if the subject represents nothing but the proposed association for mutual benefit, the conclusion would be merely a tautology, repeating the original assumption of the speech as a whole. The relationship of exchange for the mutual benefit of two contracting parties, which Lysias praises in the name of the nonlover, is grounded on the principles of exchange in the economic sphere.17 The nonlover, who is not carried off beyond the bounds of self-interest, must persuasively demonstrate his own merits in a proportion equal to the desired youth and beauty of the beloved;18 to accomplish this, the nonlover must compose an advertisement against his competitor, the lover. That such a conception of love for the sake of mutual selfinterest is destructive of the very nature of love, Socrates attempts to demonstrate in his recantation, which he introduces by expressing his fear of "buying honor among men in exchange for sinning against the gods" (242d). At the conclusion of this recantation, Socrates condemns the nonlover's intimacy (oikeiotes) as "mortal and thrifty economizing," which "begets in the soul of the loved one that

26

Plato's Phaedrus

illiberality praised bylhe many as virtue" (256e).*The nature of the erotic relationship advocated by the speech of Lysias is thus shown to be the fitting image for the nature of his activity of writing, which serves as an instrument in the service of money-making. The attempt to make sense of Lysias's speech in light of the utilitarian nature of the relation it advocates is based upon the admission of desire for self-benefit with which the nonlover concludes his address. The written speech can parade as an actual address only if the nonlover acknowledges the purely semantic significance of his designation.19 But that semantic interpretation, with its implicit acknowledgment of the nonlover's self-interest, would contradict the apparently persuasive purpose of the speech, which can be supported only if the nonlover's self-designation is taken literally. Since, however, the very notion of a true nonlover would seem to preclude the possibility of desire for a particular beloved, the speech cannot be the actual conversation between two individuals that it appears to be. 2 0 The nonlover can be truly a nonlover and hence fulfill his persuasive purpose only if the speech acknowledges itself as a product of writing; as an acknowledged product of writing, however, the speech can no longer parade as the actual address of an alleged nonlover to a particular beloved. Because the self-contradiction of Lysias's speech consists in the impossibility of its being an address to any particular beloved, it seems to indicate the conditions for persuasion and submission in the association, not of individual lover and beloved, but of ruler and ruled in the city. 21 The portrait of the speaker who disclaims his love in the sense of being carried away, but demands the favors of another for his own benefit, is in fact a description of the potential ruler seeking to gain the favors of the electorate.22 This wooer of the demos must provide an assurance of his own completeness, personal disinterest, and perfect self-control, as well as a pledge of his willingness and ability to satisfy the needs and desires of those he seeks to rule. Lysias's portrait of the demagogue courting the favors of the people through his persuasive power of speech presents itself appropriately through the voice of the nonlover. 23 The intentional deceptiveness of Lysias's art thus makes him the fitting representative for the rhetoricians, whose knowledge of the opinions of the many, as Socrates later affirms, enables them to persuade the city by "praising evil under the name of good" (260c). When Phaedrus later denies any awareness of a private use of the art of rhetoric (261b), he unwittingly confirms the impossibility of Lysias's speech on the level at which it is presented and the necessity of its reinterpretation. The unacknowledged political influence underlying the apparently private nature of Phaedrus's character is reflected in the speech he admires. The deception that Phaedrus innocently enacts in hiding the reality of the speech as a written work is mirrored in the content of the speech, hiding its political significance beneath the guise of a private seduction. 24 This necessary reinterpretation of the apparently private address by the nonlover to the beloved as the campaign speech of a demagogue to the demos is appropriately uncovered through the recognition of its character as a product of writing, which necessarily addresses a collective

Multicolored Speech of Lysias

27

audience. 25 The written speech of Lysias thus mirrors the nature of the written dialogue in which it appears, where the apparently private love-scene between Socrates and Phaedrus is finally acknowledged as an address to the speechwriters, poets, and law-writers. The condemnation of eros as the fundamental obstacle to objectivity and to artful control, which constitutes the necessary argument of Lysias's speech, is spuriously accomplished through the acceptance of the illusion of the speech as a private address; the necessary silence of the nonlover's speech is concealed by the expressed intention of the speech as an effort of persuasion (cf. 227c). But this very need for persuasion as it is reflected in the argument of the speech raises a legitimate question concerning the lack of justification for mutual love between lover and beloved. It is precisely through this lack of justification that the nonlover achieves his victory over the lover, who desires the favors of his beloved simply on the basis of his own love. The problem of nonreciprocity in love, and the consequent absence of justice in the erotic experience, should be resolved by Socrates' description of the divine madness of eros, characterized by a self-forgetfulness which obliterates the demand for equitable returns (cf. 252a). But it is only the recognition by the beloved of the blessings brought to him by the divine madness of his lover which constitutes the basis for his own conversion to the role of lover (255d); even divine madness does not overcome the desirability of responsiveness from beloved to lover. The very possibility of mutual divine madness between lover and beloved, as Socrates' recantation attempts to demonstrate, requires the unification of love for another individual with the love of wisdom. The object of love with which the lover of wisdom seeks some kind of communion, however, is not a mutually responsive ensouled being, but "the beings which always are" (249c); in their fullness and self-sameness, the beings lack nothing, they contain no impulsion toward becoming, no mutual desire for their human lover. 26 The possibility of achieving the desired mutual love between individuals seems, paradoxically, to depend upon the existence of a love which cannot be reciprocal. This silence of the ideas in granting favors to the lover of ideas is first suggested by Lysias's speech, which calls into question the justification of the demand for reciprocity in love. A persuasive and deceptive speech made by a concealed lover to his beloved, with its underlying political significance as the address of a demagogue to the demos, thus comes to light, finally, as a description of the ideas in their objectivity and absence of desire. Once its illusory pretense is unveiled, the nonlover's speech points to the character of that "nonlove" necessary for the vision of the ideas portrayed in Socrates' mythic hymn to eros (cf. 247c). 27 Lysias's nonerotic art of writing thus represents the necessary opposition that reveals the limitations of Socrates' praise for the madness of eros, awakened by desire for a particular beloved. But the speech of the nonlover, who claims to possess objectivity through the mastery of desire, discloses the germ of truth in its condemnation of eros only in light of its nature as a product of writing cop-

28

Plato's Phaedrus

structed by art in the absence of desire; the silence and immutability attributed to the written word at the conclusion of the conversation (cf. 275d-e) represents, therefore, the universalization of Lysias's speech as a model for the silence and immutability of the "beings beyond the heavens." While the argument of Lysias's speech thus implicitly provides a description of the nature of the ideas in relation to the lover of wisdom, its arrangement confirms such an interpretation. The cyclical character and repeatability attributed to the speech in the course of its examination (264e) recalls Socrates' image of the "feast on the beings," enjoyed by the gods carried round by the revolution of the heavens (cf. 247c). Socrates' description of the process of coming to know as an activity of discovering experienced as remembering (249c) is in fact suggested by the opening statement of Lysias's speech, with its paradoxical assumption of previous familiarity, which Socrates only criticizes for its inadequacy without acknowledging its implication. In their later examination of the beginning of Lysias's speech, Phaedrus is commanded by Socrates to read (anagndsesthai), that is, "to know again"; language itself provides the clue to the character of the written word as a representation which involves re-cognition." 28 If mere repeatability is a sign of the absence of truth, the appearance of knowledge without reality—Phaedrus only wants to repeat the speech of Lysias, neither acknowledging its presence nor investigating its meaning—such repeatability is, nevertheless a necessary condition for the possibility of knowledge, insofar as recognition of the truth of any claim to knowledge seems to imply the awareness of having always already known. 29 These contradictory aspects of repeatability constitute the essential danger and power of the written word (cf. 275a). 30 The product of writing thus competes with the divine madness of eros as the necessary condition for the possibility of knowledge as recollection; the germ of this competition lies hidden within the poikilos written speech of Lysias's nonlover,31 Socrates likens the cyclical speech of the nonlover to the epitaph on the tombstone of Midas the Phrygian (274d); the tombstone seems to be the perfect image for the paradigm of writing, which cannot be brought to life without self-contradiction.32 But the connection of writing with death, evoked by the epitaph, is in fact transformed by the very content of that epitaph, which presents itself as a model for the immortality of the written word:33 A bronze maiden am I; I lie upon the tomb of Midas. As long as water flows and tall trees flourish with leaves, Remaining in the same place upon a much-lamented tomb, I shall declare to those passing by that Midas is buried here. (264d)

The hubristic speech of the inscription suggests that the everlasting life of flowing water and flowering trees is attainable by man only through the art of writing exemplified by the inscription itself; it thus recalls the tension in the opening scene between the sacred grove and the speech which is to be recited there. The pnoTavtnp sneaks through the voice, frozen for all time, of a bronze maiden;34 the

Multicolored Speech of Lysias

29

statue of the bronze maiden remains silent without the written epitaph to ensoul it, but the written epitaph requires^the response of those passing by in order to bring the bronze maiden to life. The epitaph points to the desired immortality and immutability sought in the activity of writing, but the condition for the fulfillment of that desire seems to require the seemingly impossible convergence of the dead written word and the living presence of its reader. The desire suggested by the epitaph seems incapable of being fulfilled by the speech of Lysias, of which the epitaph is an image, for precisely because it contradicts its own illusory pretense as an actual address while concealing its true character as a product of writing, Lysias's speech necessarily remains recalcitrant to ensoulment. While the epitaph may be the appropriate image for the product of writing in general, the specific image for the written speech of Lysias is the tombstone of Midas the Phrygian, mythical model for the self-destructive capacity of excessive love of gain. 35 The connection between the love of money and the activity of writing points to the particular character of Lysias's work, which originates in the house of the rhetoricians near the Olympeium and seems to be out of place among flourishing trees and flowing water in the grove of the nymphs and Pan. In contrast with the natural beauty of the sacred grove where Socrates recites his inspired speeches, the "sophistication" of the city represents the ground for the connection between writing and money-making, which arise along with, and as conditions for, the development of the arts. The dialogue thus suggests the analogous connection of barter and money as vehicles of exchange for goods of the body, with speech and writing as vehicles of exchange for goods of the soul. If barter represents that natural human interaction guided by the exchange value of objects, money comes into use as a means of standardizing such interaction, although the art of money-making may become an end in itself, with the intention of preservation and accumulation;36 if speech represents that natural human interaction guided by the relations among the "beings which always are," 37 the art of writing comes into use as a means of standardizing such interaction, but may become a vehicle for preservation and accumulation. 38 Writing, like money, may become an end in itself and thus cease to represent any genuine exchange of thinking; precisely this danger is shown in Phaedrus's admiration for the dead written speech of Lysias. The connection between the love of money and the art of writing is established in opposition to the gods outside the city, to whom Socrates addresses his final prayer requesting only the wealth of wisdom (279b). The division which Socrates articulates between external wealth and internal wisdom is immediately preceded by a division between the external product of writing and the internal "word written in the soul" (277c-278b). Socrates' final prayer seems to be the fitting conclusion for the conversation he conducts outside the walls of the city, wandering barefoot along the river, praising the beauty of the sacred grove, experiencing the inspiration of the local gods and finally of his own daimonion. But Socrates' alliance with love and nature, hence his self-willed alienation from the city, is a

30

Plato's Phaedrus

reaction to the particular artfulness of the sophoi. Just as his admitted interest in eros is grounded in his pursuit of self-knowledge, his alliance with nature is grounded in his love of learning; the conjunction of his alliance with nature and his love of learning is in fact provided by the attraction of a speech in a book (cf. 230e). But Socrates is compelled to transform Lysias's product of writing, with its associations of lifelessness and love of money, in order to win the admiration of Phaedrus, "torn in two directions" (257b); in the course of that transformation, Socrates points to the potential unification of love and art in the activity of "love with philosophic speeches" (257b). Precisely this ground for Socrates' struggle against the sophoi is shared by the Platonic dialogue, while the very expression of that unity reveals a necessary distinction. The alienation of the external written word, implied by Socrates' concluding prayer, is thus revealed by the dialogue as a whole to be merely one aspect of its potential; like the human madness of eros condemned by Lysias, it represents a part parading as a whole. It is the purpose of the Phaedrus to indicate the existence of that whole. The poikilos speech of Lysias, therefore, which Socrates condemns as a sin against eros, provides not only the necessary argument which will be transformed into the Socratic defense of divine eros, but also the germ for the Platonic defense of an "erotic" art of writing.39

I L L

THE NYMPHOLEPTIC SPEECH OF SOCRATES

Oh daimonie, I feel that my breast is full, that I could speak against that speech another one different and no worse. Now J know well that, by myself, I have never thought of these things, being aware of my own ignorance; so, I believe, I have been filled through the ears like a pitcher from some other source; but again, from stupidity, I have forgotten how and from whom I heard it. (235c)

Phaedrus's admiration for the comprehensiveness of Lysias's speech compels Socrates to demonstrate its inadequacy by producing another speech as a rearrangement of Lysias's necessary argument concerning the superiority of the artful nonlover to the mad lover. Socrates indicates his recognition of this argument as a sin against eros by delivering the speech with his head covered in shame, imitating Phaedrus's concealment of Lysias's speech beneath his cloak. Dissociating himself from the speech that "fills him through the ears like an empty pitcher," Socrates presents the argument of the nonlover within a narrative frame, which allows him to reveal the true nature of Lysias's nonlover as a concealed lover who distinguishes himself from the mad lover he condemns by his artful control in seeking the satisfaction of his desire; that disclosure constitutes the necessary preparation for revealing the true whole of eros, suppressed by the speech of Lysias. Because Socrates' first speech must establish the human bond between the madness of identification with the bestial and the madness of identification with the divine, the definition of eros within the speech is based on the construction of a model of the human individual qua human, ruled by the competing forces of acquired opinion and natural desire for the beautiful. In the absence of any higher force, moderation based on acquired opinion is proclaimed superior to the hubris of eros as natural desire, arbitrarily restricted to desire for beauty of the body. On this basis, Socrates' nonlover deduces the necessary consequences of harm to the mind, body, and property of a beloved who grants favors to such a lover, thus organizing the apparently random reproaches set forth in

Lysias's speech while uncovering their implicit assumptions. The incompleteness of the nonlover's constructed model of man, which precludes any divine standard of natural desire or any separate principle of soul, is reflected in Socrates' sudden

32

Plato's Phaedrus interruption of tfie speech before it is complete. Phaedrus, who takes the incompleteness of the speech condemning the mad lover to be an absence of praise for the nonlover rather than an absence of praise for the divine lover, betrays his own nature as the basis for the nonlover's model of man. Just as Phaedrus represents the necessary intermediary between Lysias and Socrates, the speech he compels, praising the superiority of moderation based on acquired opinion, represents the necessary mediation between Lysias's condemnation of the madness of human eros and Socrates's recantation raising the divine madness of eras.

I N RESPONSE TO LYSIAS'S SPEECH PRAISING THE NONLOVER, SOCRATES DELIV-

ers two love-speeches, each introduced as an effort of persuasion directed toward Phaedrus (cf. 237b, 243a, 257a). Socrates' willingness to compete with Lysias is encouraged by his opposition to Phaedrus's belief in the exhaustiveness of the nonlover's speech (235b); the feeling of fullness which Socrates expresses is his awareness of that part of the whole of eros suppressed by the speech of Lysias. The perplexity of Socrates' response, however, consists in its problematic articulation into two separate and apparently opposite speeches (265a), If Socrates were not conversing with Phaedrus, and the dialogue were not a dialogue, the two speeches might perhaps be collapsed into one whole, as Socrates later indicates in his analysis of "how the speech passed over from that of blame to that of praise" (265c). But Socrates is compelled by Phaedrus to begin with the hypothesis of Lysias's speech: that "the lover is more sick than the nonlover" (236b). Phaedrus's demand for a paidia of competition seems, then, to determine the division of Socrates' response to Lysias. The speech compelled by Phaedrus must serve as the necessary mediation between the clever written work of Lysias and the recantation of Socrates, which will be believed "not by the merely clever but only by the wise" (245c). What unites Socrates' two speeches is not only their common origin as a revision of the speech by Lysias, but also their presentation as products of divine inspiration. In assigning responsibility for the speeches he delivers, Socrates presents several not evidently compatible sources.1 The sources of the first speech include: the wise men and women of old who have spoken or written about these matters (23 5b), Sappho and Anacreon or some kind of prose writers (23 5c), a stream filling Socrates through the ears like an empty pitcher (23 5d), the Muses (237a), the gods of the place (238d), the nymphs to whom Phaedrus has exposed Socrates (241e), 2 Phaedrus (244a), Lysias as father of the speech (257b), Phaedrus and Socrates together (265a). The sources of the second speech include: Phaedrus, surpassed only by Simmias as a cause of speeches (242b), Socrates'

Nympholeptic Speech of Socrates'

33

daimonion (242c), the prophetic soul (242c), Ibycus (242d), Stesichorus of Hiniera (244a), Socrates himself, moved by shame before an imagined gentleman and by fear of the god Eros (243d), Socrates and Phaedrus together (265a). The ambiguous madness of eros which constitutes the content of Socrates' speeches is reflected in the ambiguous forces of divine inspiration that stimulate them. With his ironic attribution of the artfulness of his presumably spontaneous speeches to divine inspiration, Socrates exhibits the ground for the accusation of hubris against him, and thus provides the necessary foundation for the Platonic defense of the art of writing. While Socrates introduces his allegedly spontaneous speeches as products of divine inspiration, however, the models he acknowledges for them are the works of the lyric love poets; Socrates himself does not seem perplexed about the apparent contradiction between the divine inspiration that he credits as the source of his extemporaneous speeches and their professed literary models. This assumed likeness between divine inspiration and the written word is in fact suggested by the models for the activity of writing: the poets honored by the Muses (245a) and the law-writers who believe themselves "equal to the gods" (258c). The likeness of the written word to the product of inspiration is suggested by its ambiguous independence (275a), its authoritative appearance, its potential exemplification of true opinion without knowledge. Only the possibility of alienation from divine inspiration, exhibited by Socrates' later examination of the speeches on eros, indicates the possibility of a product of writing that would elicit reflection rather than submission from its responsive reader. The recognition of this potential of the art of writing would, however, depend upon the possibility of overcoming the apparent dichotomy between the externality of the written word and the internalization of living speech; the apparent dichotomy between writing and spontaneous speech would have to be transformed into a division within the nature of the written word itself. The mirror reflecting this transformation of the division between speech and writing to one within writing itself is provided by the movement unfolded in the course of Socrates' two speeches on eros, finally presented as parts of one whole (cf. 265c-266b). While both erotic speeches are introduced as the result of divine inspiration, the first is generated by the madness of Socrates' being carried outside himself, the second by a divine reminder from within himself. While the nymphs and Pan produce the effects of their inspiration through the beautiful vision of the sacred grove and through the illuminated face of Phaedrus as he reads the speech of Lysias, Socrates' daimonion is heard as a "voice" from within. If possession by the nymphs and Pan puts Socrates beside himself and thereby leads him astray, the inspiration of the daimonion puts him in touch with the roots of his error and thus opens the path for purification. External possession by the gods of the place leads to excess, inducing Socrates to forget himself (238d); internal possession by the daimonion works as a force of restraint, issuing inhibitive commands which reflect Socrates' knowledge of himself (242c). If the inspiration of the first speech fills Socrates through the ears like an empty pitcher, the impulse for the second speech acts as "a reminder of what he

34

Plato's Phaedrus

already knows" (cf. 275c). The inner inspiration of Socrates' recantation, which allows him to return to himself, points to the decisive potential of the written word as reminder, but the defense for that potential requires a demonstration of its inherent dangers. Those dangers are portrayed by the external possession of Socrates' first speech, which seduces him away from the self-knowledge necessary for his recognition of eros as a whole. Phaedrus's proposal of a competition between Lysias and Socrates is based on his admiration of Lysias's speech for its complete coverage of the subject, so that no one could speak "more or more worthily about it" (235b). In his state of inspiration brought on by Phaedrus's delight, Socrates suddenly remembers his disapproval of the one-sided content of the speech, in contrast to his original reproach against the redundancy of its form (cf. 23 5a), Although Socrates finds himself filled with the memory of the speeches and writings of "ancient and wise men and women," in his convenient stupidity he has forgotten "how and from whom" (235d). 3 Socrates surmises, nevertheless, that his knowledge of eros comes from Sappho the beautiful, or Anacreon the wise, those poets who refuse to praise the sanity of the nonlover.4 Sappho and Anacreon are the poets who write hymns, not to the gods, but to their loves, for each would claim that "my loves are my gods."5 On the model of the works of these poets,. Socrates' speech must demonstrate that persuasive power whiqh might move the beloved PhaedTUS to become a lover. Phaedrus's demand for a speech "better and no shorter and completely other than the one in the book" (23 5d) could be fulfilled only if Lysias had composed a speech of complete falsehood; but not even the worst writer can err entirely, Socrates explains, for error consists only in omission, that is, in the illusion of taking a part for a whole (23 5e). Understood as a part, the thesis of any speech may in fact be a necessary argument, misleading only insofar as it is mistaken for a whole. On this basis Socrates establishes the first principle of the art of rhetoric: with regard to a necessary argument, only the arrangement is worthy of praise, while the nonnecessary argument, which is difficult to discover, deserves praise for itself in addition to its arrangement (236a). 6 Since the necessary argument of Lysias's speech is based upon the confusion of one kind of love with all love, it is the ambiguity of eros itself which provides the ground for that argument and its possible arrangements (cf. 263c). Acknowledging the necessity of Lysias's argument condemning the madness of eros, Socrates insists that it is only the arrangement which could be blamed for its inadequacy. The speech Socrates is about to deliver represents, therefore, nothing but the rearrangement of Lysias's necessary argument, but only the nonnecessary argument underlying Socrates' recantation uncovers the one-sided falsification of the condemnation of eros, and thus reveals the whole of which every arrangement of Lysias's necessary argument is only a part. The mere rearrangement of Lysias's speech, based on the hypothesis of its necessary argument, Socrates must deliver with his head covered in shame, as a sign of the sin he is about to commit. Socrates' knowledge of himself enables him

Nympholeptic Speech of Socrates'

35

to recognize his sin as a lack of complete vision; in his imitation of self-blinding, Socrates dramatically reveals that the appropriate punishment for lack of complete vision is identical with the sin itself. Socrates' simulated self-blinding thus serves as a warning that his first speech on eros must be understood in the context of its compulsory delivery, its attribution to a source external to himself, and its motivation by the desire to compete with Lysias for the admiration of Phaedrus. That awareness of the error or sinfulness of the speech which Socrates pretends to acquire at its conclusion (242c) is in fact present at its inception. Socrates opens his speech with an invocation to the shrill-voiced Muses (237a); he requires their aid in order to make himself appear to Phaedrus even wiser than he now seems to be. The Muses, who punish their own lovers with death and grant their favors only to those who do not succomb to their charms (cf. 259b-d), are the antierotic patrons of those who practice an art, hence the proper recipients of Socrates' request for aid in appearing beautiful by speaking in the name of the nonlover, condemning the madness of eros.7 Socrates must begin by flattering Phaedrus's self-identification with the beloved, the nonlover represented by Lysias, but Socrates displays the artfulness which the Muses seem to have granted him by establishing a narrative frame for the nonlover's speech, which renders explicit the purposes left inexplicit in the speech of Lysias. In making his speech a narrative one, and not direct discourse, Socrates refrains from identifying the argument of the speech as his own. By accounting for the perspective of the nonlover who delivers the speech, Socrates' narrative report seems to overcome the illusory objectivity exhibited by a direct dramatic representation.® The deceitfulness of Lysias's illusory imitation of the nonlover's direct address is thus avoided by Socrates' enclosure of the nonlover's address within the narrative frame which illuminates its particular perspective.9 Even with the safeguard of his narrative frame, Socrates begins the speech of the nonlover by announcing the transparent principle of his rhetorical art: the only beginning for counseling well consists in an agreement upon definition— not necessarily with regard to truth—and the deduction of consequences from that agreement (237c). 10 In exemplifying this hypothetical-deductive rhetorical art, Socrates' nonlover proceeds to establish a definition of eros which leads Phaedrus to draw the necessary consequences concerning its harm to the beloved who accepts it. The premise of this definition is that love is a desire (epithumia), but inasmuch as "desire for the beautiful is also the condition of nonlovers," the definition requires a further criterion for distinguishing eros (237d). This criterion is discovered on the basis of a constructed model of the human individual, a model which implicitly expresses the underlying assumption of the speech as a whole. The model of man constructed by Socrates' nonlover indicates that all human action is determined by the struggles and competition of "two ruling and leading ideai," not in the soul, but "in us": "the natural desire for pleasure" and "acquired opinion striving for the best" (237e). Moderation by convention, based on the "victory of acquired opinion through speech" is named sophrosune; the

36

Plato's Phaedrus

"victory of natural desire without speech, dragging toward pleasure" is named hubris (238a). Since, however, hubris is "many-named," being "many^ftnembered" and "many-formed," the particular madness of eros has not yet been defined. Although Socrates' nonlover acknowledges the complex division of hubris as a whole, he conceals the possibility of any beautiful or honorable part, any divine potential. In elucidating this complex whole, therefore, the nonlover offers the examples of desire for food and for drink (238b); since eros is, presumably, only one part of hubris, the nonlover may apparently be at the same time a glutton and a drunkard!11 Passing over the many "kindred desires," the speaker proceeds to that part of hubris called eros: "desire led toward pleasure in the beautiful, forced by kindred desires toward beauty of the body" (238c). 12 Whether the desire for pleasure in the beautiful demands the possession of its object, on the model of food and drink, or whether it perhaps requires the distance of contemplation, is a question which the nonlover never raises. The link between such desire and its compulsion toward beauty of the body remains an unexamined assumption; Socrates' nonlover never asks whether there could be a "natural desire dragging toward pleasure in the beautiful," which would represent the motive force of the "love of wisdom."13 At the completion of this definition, Socrates interrupts the speech in order to declare himself inspired, and thus denies his responsibility for the speech which issues from his mouth. Having just condemned the hubris of being carried away, Socrates proclaims the hubris of his own condition. Socrates' outburst into dithyrambics is a sign of his attack of nympholepsy,14 but the cause (c3itias) of that attack is Phaedrus himself (238d). If the speech is, indeed, bewitched (katapharmakeuthentos) by Phaedrus (242e), its rhetorical form and content must express Socrates' knowledge of Phaedrus's nature. Socrates would then paint a portrait of Phaedrus as a man moved by the struggle between natural desires, forced toward enjoyment of physical beauty, and acquired opinion striving toward the right, without philosophic eros as reconciliation. Phaedrus himself, the cause of Socrates' nympholepsy, provides the guide for the model of man underlying the speech he inspires; in leaving the defense against this nympholepsy in the hands of "god" (538d), Socrates hints at the daemonic awareness that what he now presents as a whole is, in fact, only a part. Socrates' interruption of the speech serves to distinguish himself from the nonlover who has just laid down the definition of eros as a premise and can now draw the proper consequences of advantage or harm for a beloved who grants favors to such a lover. In deducing these consequences, the apparently random order of Lysias's speech is organized into a descending hierarchy of harm to mind, body, and property. The underlying assumption of this argument is that one who is enslaved to pleasure will desire to make his beloved as pleasing as possible; but since the lover is sick with madness, he will find pleasure only in what is inferior to himself and therefore under his complete control (239a). The nonlover begins, therefore, by describing the lover's efforts in maintaining

Nympholeptic Speech of Socrates'

37

the inferiority of his beloved, keeping him "ignorant not wise, cowardly not courageous, a poor speaker not eloquent, slow of wit not clever" (239a). The reference to wisdom and courage provokes an expectation of the other traditional virtues, moderation and justice, 15 but Socrates' nonlover replaces those virtues with his own realistic ideals; superiority of mind, according to the nonlover, may be based on wisdom and courage, but it also requires rhetorical skill and cleverness to cover up intemperance and injustice. In promising by implication to maintain the superiority of the beloved by encouraging his wisdom, courage, eloquence, and cleverness, the nonlover in fact presents himself as a proper model for the beloved whose favors he seeks. By attacking the jealousy of the lover as desire for exclusive possession of the object of love, the nonlover, despite his explicit intention, hints at the possibility of a love whose object might unite rather than divide those who pursued it. The most advantageous association, therefore, which the jealous lover is accused of holding off from his beloved, is "divine philosophy" (239b). This indication of the tension between the particularity of erotic passion and the desired objectivity of "divine philosophy" reveals the truth of the nonlover's condemnation of the madness of eras, but only by suppressing the possibility that "divine philosophy" may itself constitute the ultimate standard of eras. Yet despite the one-sided determination of ems he has articulated, based on the "necessary argument" of Lysias's written speech, Socrates' nonlover justifiably brings to light the necessarily nonerotic element of "divine philosophy" and thus corrects in advance, as it were, the equally unbalanced presentation of philosophy as eros, which characterizes Socrates' recantation. From his account of the harm suffered by the mind of the beloved who yields to a lover, the nonlover proceeds to an account of the harm to his body. An explicit consideration of eros in relation to the body is necessarily taken up in a speech based on the model of the human individual, of man qua man. What the nonlover attacks, however, is not the sexual experience of erotic passion, but the lover's effort to maintain his beloved's dependence. The lover is therefore blamed for his attempt to keep his beloved soft, brought up not in sunshine but in shade, "unacquainted with manly toils and sweat, but used to a delicate and unmanly way of life" (239d). 16 It is again Phaedrus himself, the light drinker, lover of grass and shade, stroller on the unwearying country roads, who fills the role of beloved for the nonlover who courts him. The triadic structure of the nonlover's argument concerning the harmfulness of association with a lover leads from the examination of mind and body to that of property. On the assumption that whatever is dear to the beloved is necessarily hated by his jealous lover, it is inevitable that their interests can never coincide. In identifying the dearest possessions with father, mother, kinsmen, and friends (239e), the speaker betrays his acceptance of Lysias's economic model of human relations. Because he wishes to enjoy without disturbance what is most pleasant to him, the lover necessarily comes into conflict with the beloved's attachment to the privacy of home and family (240a). In this conflict, the jealous lover bears

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ironic resemblance to tire city, as well as to the demands involved in the pursuit of philosophy; but while the city and the pursuit of philosophy would claim to represent the interests of a more comprehensive community or of a higher order than that of the family, the lover resents the private attachments of his beloved only because of his own supreme possessiveness and uncontrolled desire. Having established the inevitable harm to the beloved from his association with a lover, the speaker goes on to deny even the possibility of pleasure. By admitting that the flatterer, like the courtesan, may indeed bring pleasure to the beloved (240b), the nonlover attempts to justify his own promise of providing pleasure, if not benefit, to the beloved he addresses. In contrast, the burden of compulsion which the lover exerts on his beloved, based on the compulsion of desire which the lover himself experiences, serves as a fundamental source of pain in their association (240c). While Socrates is about to describe in his recantation to eros the pain experienced by both lover and beloved from the compulsion of their longing, he identifies that very pain as a sign of the growth of the capacity for desire, which constitutes the source of our greatest blessings (cf. 251c). Only the nonlover chooses pleasure and pain as the proper criteria for judging the value of the relationship with a lover or a nonlover. Having accomplished his condemnation of love as harmful and unpleasant while it lasts, the nonlover finally turns to the evils that ensue when love has ceased. Socrates' rearrangement again avoids the randomness of Lysias's speech, where the condemnation of eros itself is constantly confused with the reproach against its inevitable cessation. According to the model constructed by Socrates' nonlover, the inevitable evanescence of the victory of eros guarantees the lover's return to reason and his repudiation of former promises; "the shell has fallen the other way, and he changes his part and runs away" (241b). The metaphor of the game, with its reversal of roles for pursuer and pursued, mirrors the activity transpiring between Socrates and Phaedrus, but this game is interpreted by the nonlover in light of Lysias's utilitarian model of love, where each participant is after the fulfillment of his own needs, expecting payment in return for any benefits provided. The nonlover finally gratifies Phaedrus with a summary of his speech, a rhetorical device which Phaedrus expects and admires (cf. 228d, 267e). To accept a lover is to yield to one who is "faithless, irritable, jealous, unpleasant, harmful to property and bodily condition, and most harmful to the cultivation of the soul, than which there neither is nor will be anything in truth more honorable for gods or men" (241c). 17 Whereas the body of the speech proceeds in a descending hierarchy from mind [dianoia) through body to property, the speaker concludes his attack against the harmfulness of eros in an ascending hierarchy from property through body to the soul (psuche), to which he suddenly ascribes the greatest honor in truth for gods and men. With this sudden replacement of mind by soul, and acknowledgment of the divine as a standard for the human, Socrates' nonlover points to the incompleteness of the speech which has borrowed its "necessary argument" from Lysias's condemnation of eros. Only in this

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39

fleeting moment does the nonlover hint at the possibility of some force of nature which is higher than acquired opinion; he thus prepares the bridge to Socrates' second speech as the complementary part of a whole, and justifies the apparently abrupt beginning of that speech, announcing that the proof for the divine madness of eros depends upon an examination of "the truth about the nature of soul, divine and human" (cf. 245c). The harm to the beloved who grants his favors to the mad lover is affirmed in the conclusion of the nonlover's speech by the identification of the affection (philia) of the lover, not as good will (eunoid), 18 but as appetite to be satisfied: "As the wolf loves the lamb, so the lover loves his beloved" (241c). 19 The artful speech which begins ironically with an invocation to the Muses consists in a condemnation of nature, but only by restricting nature to those forces inferior to acquired opinion, by identifying nature with the bestial rather than with the divine. When Socrates suddenly interrupts his speech, begging Phaedrus not to listen any longer, but "to let the logos have its telos" (24Id), Phaedrus's only reaction is disappointment that the speech is unfinished; he thus confirms, his fundamental influence on the underlying assumptions of the speech, for he identifies its incompleteness with its absence of praise for the conventional moderation of the nonlover, not with its absence of praise for the divine madness of the true lover. Socrates protests that he has already passed from the dithyrambics of his opening section with its definition of eros to the hexameters of his concluding verse; anticipating the danger of possession by the nymphs to whom Phaedrus has exposed him, Socrates questions how he might poeticize if he "begins to praise the other" (241 e). With this ambiguous reference, Socrates acknowledges his neglect in praising the divine lover at the same time that he shares Phaedrus's awareness of his neglect in praising the nonlover. If Socrates were to grant to that "other" all the advantages denied to the lover, he would have to praise the nonlover for his artfulness and his objectivity; taking up the "necessary argument" of Lysias's speech, without imitating the self-contradictory, concealed desire motivating Lysias's speaker, the true nonlover whom Socrates would have to praise for possessing all the advantages denied to the mad lover is the nonerotic art of writing. Surely the nymphs would possess him, Socrates claims, if he were to do so. T o be possessed by the nymphs is to become a beloved, a nonlover incapable of experiencing erotic desire. The mountain nymph Oreithyia, with whom Phaedrus so easily identified himself, is indeed the first model for the nonloving beloved carried off by a passionate lover; but only Socrates, and not Phaedrus, admitted that her role must be shared by Pharmakeia, for the comprehensive account of non-eros must include, not only the calculating nonlover, who seeks the satisfaction of appetite without being carried away by self-forgetfulness, but also the nonerotic "drug" of the written word. Possession by the nonerotic nymphs must constitute the "divine frenzy" in which Socrates follows, struck with amazement while looking at Phaedrus's face, made bright by reading the

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Plato's Phaedrus

nonerotic written speeqja of Lysias (cf. 234d). It is the "prophets of the Muses" and the "gods of the place"—Pan and the nymphs—whom Socrates later praises for the artfulness displayed in his first speech delivered in the name of the nonlover (262d), and again the nymphs and Pan whom Socrates credits for the artful beginning of that speech, which establishes with no prior defense a determinate definition of eros as the premise of its condemnation (263d). The sacred resting spot, which Socrates enthusiastically describes upon their arrival, belongs to the nymphs and the cicadas, prophets of the Muses (cf. 259b-d), and it is the "fountain of the nymphs and the Muses" that Socrates identifies as the source of the message, represented by the critical discussion on art in the second half of the dialogue, which Phaedrus and Socrates are finally commanded to deliver to all the "writers in the city" (278b). In the presence of Phaedrus, in competing with the speech of Lysias, Socrates justifiably fears the threat of possession by the nymphs; but in the original interruption of his speech, he already acknowledged the responsibility of "god" in averting their attack. The nymphs and the Muses seem to be allied, over and against Eros and Socrates' daimonion, for the possession of his soul. This conflict of the antierotic nymphs and Muses with the daimonion who reminds Socrates of the divine madness of eros is illustrated by the apparent chronological sequence of inspirations Socrates undergoes as the foundation for the deceptive two-ness of his speeches, the pretense of each part to be a whole. But Socrates placed his defense against the nymphs in the hands of god even before reaching the conclusion of his speech for the nonlover; the postponement in the delivery of his second speech, like the delay before the first speech and the interruption within it, allows Socrates to entice Phaedrus to use compulsion and thus become an accomplice in the contest against Lysias. Before continuing the discussion, Socrates is careful to reaffirm his separation from the speech just delivered. The muthos will suffer what it must; Socrates himself must cross the river before experiencing any more of Phaedrus's compulsion (242a). Phaedrus reacts to Socrates' reminder of his compulsion by declaring his own slavery, not to the demands of the logos nor of Socrates' soul, but to the dictates of the environment; they must speak in order to wear away the time until the sun goes down. Socrates proclaims Phaedrus "godlike about speeches" and "artlessly amazing" (242e); his apparent praise of Phaedrus's artless desire for speeches, motivated by his concern with the environment, is the mirror image of Phaedrus's earlier exclamation about Socrates' artless strangeness outside the city, motivated by his concern for speaking with "the men in town" (cf, 230d). But if Phaedrus is indeed "godlike about speeches" because of his request to converse (dialegesthai) about what has been spoken, that request cannot be fulfilled without uncovering the suppressed part of the whole of eros, which the first two speeches have ignored. Socrates' desire to correct the speech just delivered in the name of the nonlover is based on his understanding of the need to articulate the polar opposite of that "nonlove" exemplified by Lysias's dead and silent writing. Socrates therefore

Nympholeptic Speech of Socrates'

41

replaces Phaedrus's godlike request to discuss the speeches already delivered with his own proposal for granting the favors of another speech; Socrates repays Phaedrus for entering him into competition with Lysias by entering Phaedrus into competition with Simmias the Theban as producer of speeches (242b). Simmias, who compels Socrates to deliver speeches on the immortality of the soul, is held up as a standard for Phaedrus in the transition between Socrates' speech condemning the human madness of eros and his speech praising the divine madness of eros. By comparing Phaedrus to Simmias, Socrates points to the inadequacy of his first speech, praising the moderation of acquired opinion, as a true reconciliation of the conflict between the nonerotic art represented in and by Lysias's written speech and the divine madness of eros represented in and by Socrates' recantation. In its implicit function as a mediation of the tension between death and eros, the speech Socrates first delivers under Phaedrus's "bewitching" must be judged in light of the speeches Socrates produces under the compulsion of Simmias; in a moment between the two speeches on eros delivered to Phaedrus, the Platonic Socrates calls to mind the conversation he conducts in the Athenian prison on the last day of his life, narrated by Phaedo in the dialogue which bears his name. Socrates begins that final conversation by explaining his occupation in the interval between his trial and his death. The delay resulting from an Athenian ritual of purification allows Socrates to carry out his own ritual of purification, engaging, apparently for the first time in his life, in the activity of writing (Phaedo 60e-61b). His composition of a hymn to Apollo and metrical versions of the muthoi of Aesop have been motivated, Socrates explains, not by the hope of competing with the poet Evenus, who had inquired about the rumor of Socrates' writing, but in fulfillment of his obligation to the Muses, whom Socrates, perhaps under the influence of his daimonion,20 has neglected for a lifetime. Only now, after his conviction by the Athenian demos, does Socrates express his suspicions about his response to the dream which had repeatedly occurred to him throughout his life, commanding him to "make music and work at it" (60e); this dream, which Socrates had always interpreted as a sanction for his eros of philosophic conversation, "the greatest music," only now elicits from Socrates a more literal interpretation as a command to produce "demotic music," With this apparent expression of guilt on the day he is to drink the hemlock, Socrates reveals a bond between writing and death, over against his lifelong activity of conversation and eros. Socrates concludes his report of his poetic activity with a message of farewell to Evenus, advising him, if he is truly a philosopher, to follow Socrates' present path as quickly as possible. Disturbed by the implication that the philosopher would consider death desirable, Simmias demands that Socrates defend himself, as in a law court, for his willingness to die, when it means separation not only from the gods who are said to be our good masters, but from his present companions as well. Socrates takes up this challenge through a defense of philosophy as the practice of dying, identified as a "separation" (64c). Like the purification of

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writing, which relieves Socrates of his guilt for following his eros of philosophic conversation, the practice of dying is a separation which constitutes an act of purification (67c). Moved by the fear of death as an annihilation of the self, Socrates' interlocuters understand purification through the practice of dying to be a separation of the soul from the body; they demand, therefore, a proof of the immortality of the soul as the necessary condition for the success of Socrates' self-defense (7la—b). But beneath the series of arguments on immortality, which fails to "charm" away the powerful fear of death, Socrates reveals his own understanding of the practice of dying as an attempted separation, not of the soul from the body, but of concern with logos from concern with the self (99d-102a). The Platonic Socrates, represented in the hours before his death, silently suggests that the separation which constitutes the practice of dying is in fact accomplished by the Platonic dialogue itself, replacing the individuality and spontaneity of the living Socrates with the logos of a written image. When, however, Socrates' account of his turn toward logos does not satisfy Simmias, who is overwhelmed by his awareness of the magnitude of these questions and the natural weakness of the human mind (107a-b), the dying Socrates offers him a concluding myth about the fate of the soul after death, Socrates' allusion to Simmias in his description of Phaedrus's compulsion adumbrates the focus of the speech he is about to deliver as a purification, which begins with a proof for the immortality of soul and reaches its peak in the praise of divine eros as stimulus for the act of recollection.21 The guilt Socrates experiences from delivering his nympholeptic speech condemning the madness of eros, based on a model of man with no separate principle of soul, can be purified only through his recantation, based on an attempt to demonstrate the "truth about the nature of soul divine and human" (245c). Socrates' praise of the divine madness of eros reveals that part of the whole of eros suppressed by the "dead" written speech of Lysias; in uncovering that possibility, however, Socrates' recantation necessarily condemns all "nonlove," without revealing the value of that alienation from the madness of eros exemplified by the Platonic art of writing. The connection between the art of writing and the practice of dying Socrates discloses through their common opposition to the madness of eros; but in the attempt to gain victory over the claims of the nonlover, Socrates cannot establish a reconciliation between the highest potential of the madness of eros and the highest potential of the nonerotic practice of dying. It seems that the dialogue has not yet completed its reflection on the myth which initiates the love-speeches, interpreted by the sophoi as a concealed logos about death, and accepted by Socrates as an account of the experience of eros. Whereas Simmias provokes Socrates' recognition of the necessity of purification from eros through a defense of philosophy as the practice of dying, Phaedrus provokes Socrates' recognition of the necessity of purification from the subordination of eros to conventional moderation through a defense of philosophy as the highest standard of eros. The juxtaposition of Phaedrus's compulsion with that of

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Simmias thus points to the necessary conjunction of philosophy as eros with philosophy as the practice of dying, but Socrates only indicates the desirability of that conjunction as a goal which he does not fulfill. In comparing Phaedrus with Simmias, Socrates indicates the insufficiency of acquired opinion as a bond between madness and art, between philosophy as eros and philosophy as the practice of dying, without examining the claim to represent that bond sdt forth by the Platonic art of writing. Compelled to purify himself from his sin against eros, which he discovers through his sudden awareness of the prohibitive presence of his daimonion, Socrates announces only the opposition between the two speeches he delivers to Phaedrus.

I

V

THE DAEMONIC SPEECH OF SOCRATES

fust when I was about to cross the stream, my good one, the daimonion and the sign that usually comes came to me—it always holds me back from something I am about to do—and I thought I heard some kind of voice which forbade my going away before purifying myself as though having sinned against god. (242c)

Socrates is held back from ending his persuasion of Phaedrus with a condemnation of eros by the sudden recognition of his daimonion, which speaks to him through a voice within himself, reminding him that Eros is "some kind of god." Under the influence of the daimonion Socrates himself exhibits all the forms of divine madness which he is about to describe; but the divine madness which Socrates experiences is in fact moderation and the daimonion which inspires him only holds him back from the boldness of his first speech, praising conventional moderation based on acquired opinion. The inspiration of the daimonion thus allows Socrates to remember himself; the daimonion is his own nature and his nature is eros. The enemy of eros in Socrates' speech is human art, and the paradigm of art in the dialogue as a whole is the art of writing. Through the portrait of Socrates' possession by his daimonion, Plato thus connects the hubris of Socrates' divine madness with the hubris of his restraint from writing. Since the sin which Socrates must purify consists in his implicit denial of the incompleteness of the human madness of eros, based on a model of man without any separate principle of soul, the recognition of divine eros necessarily begins with a demonstration of "the truth about the nature of soul divine and human." But the abstract argument introduced as the necessary starting point of the speech demonstrates the deathlessness of "all soul," identified as self-moving motion, without illuminating the distinctive nature of the human soul, as determined by the experience of eros. Compelled, therefore, to follow the human path of producing an image, Socrates likens the soul to the "composite power of winged horses and charioteer." In order to account for the deeds and sufferings of the human soul, Socrates' image must be viewed through an increasingly narrowed horizon o f perspective: the portrait o f the

celestial army of gods with their troops of human followers

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journeying upward to the feast on the vision of the beings beyond the heavens, must be supplemented by the portrait of the individual relation between a lover and the particular beloved he chooses in the image of the god he follows. Just as the crucial experience of the vision of the beings constitutes the ground for the particular nature of the fallen human soul, so the distinct worship of a particular god constitutes the ground for the conduct of the lover in his relation to a particular beloved. But the comprehensiveness of the vision of the beings, as well as the choice of the beloved whom the lover pursues as a reminder of his journey toward that vision, are in fact determined by the internal relations among the parts of the individual soul; Socrates must return, therefore, in the closing section of his speech, to an analysis of the complex division suggested by his original image. In this analysis, the white horse, lover of honor and true opinion, provides the same link between the restraining charioteer and the dark horse, friend of hubris and pride, as Socrates' first speech provides between the speech of Lysias, representing the nonloving silence of the ideas, and Socrates' recantation, praising the divine madness of eros. If, however, Socrates' recantation provides the poetic image for the unity of the three speeches on eros, it does so only in the context of praising divine madness; but precisely because the madness of eros can only be a divine blessing through its transformation to philosophic eros, the uncovering of the true whole, which would reveal the three love-speeches as parts, must await the critical examination displaying that alienation from the madness of eros which Socrates' mythic hymn cannot acknowledge.

^ ^ K F T E R FIRST ASSIGNING RESPONSIBILITY FOR HIS SECOND SPEECH TO PHAEDRUS,

likening him to Simmias, Socrates suddenly introduces the inspiration of his daimoniort. Only in the speech itself does Socrates begin to elucidate the enigmatic relation between the power exercised by another individual with whom he is conversing' and that attributed to the daimonion within himself.1 The daimonion insists that it be recognized; it demands that Socrates affirm his possession by divine madness, but it does so only by holding him back from something he is about to do.2 Through the warning of his daimonion, Socrates recognizes the sinfulness of the previous speeches, remembering that "Eros is from Aphrodite and some kind of god" (242d). Phaedrus, who only agrees that "it is said to be

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so/' seems to remember the speech of Diotima, where Eros is identified as a daimon megas, residing, "like all the daemonic," between mortals and immortals, with the power of interpreting and transporting human things to the gods and divine things to men (Symposium 202e). This daimon Eros, which exists "between wisdom and ignorance," and is therefore a "lover of wisdom" (Symposium 204b), seems to be an image of Socrates himself. Socrates now presents himself to Phaedrus as the daimonios man who possesses that daemonic wisdom necessary for every "association and converse [dialektos] of gods with men" (cf. Symposium 203a). If the daimonion transports Socrates through the divine madness of ems, it simultaneously puts him in touch with the other forms of divine madness; it is the collection of these forms of madness which constitutes the starting point of Socrates' inspired hymn (cf. 244a). The illustrations of Socrates' divine inspiration preceding his recantation, however, only mimic Socrates' critical recognition that the previous speeches were not sufficiently comprehensive. Possessed by the daimonionr Socrates asserts his prophetic powers, demonstrating the divine madness of "mantic inspiration" (cf. 244d); but "the soul itself is somehow prophetic," as Socrates admits (242c). The inspired prophecy which reveals their previous ignorance in fact consists in Socrates' recognition of the whole previously suppressed: "For all along while speaking the speech, I was disturbed" (242c). If, as Socrates implies, he began the first speech with the second already in mind, the daimonion only warns him of what he already knows, and prophecy is none other than recovery of what has been forgotten. The demand of the daimonion for purification of their previous sin (243a) demonstrates the divine madness of mystic rites for the cleansing of guilt (cf. 244e); but Socrates' guilt consists in his acceptance of a false—because one-sided—argument, and the mystic rite of purification is only the transformation of that partial argument toward a more comprehensive truth. Illustrating the third form of divine madness, "possession by the Muses of a simple and pure soul" (245a), Socrates chooses as his model the poet Ibycus, who expresses his fear of "buying honor among men while sinning against the gods" (242d);3 Socrates' possession by the Muses, however, is in fact a description of the disturbance he has experienced throughout the delivery of his previous speech, and the recognition of his sin against Eros is the result of the compulsion of an incomplete logos. In and through his imitation of the forms of divine madness, Socrates recognizes his first speech as "missing the mark" (hamartoma), that is, either an error or a sin (242d); language itself seems to bear the consciousness of the Socratic principle that virtue is knowledge. The speeches just delivered are, therefore, both impious in speaking evil of eros, "for nothing godlike can be evil" (242e), and foolish in the pretense that they say something healthy or true in order to deceive and gain honor from some "manikins" (243a). The link between the foolishness and impiety of the previous speeches is mirrored in the link between the double motivation of Socrates' coming speech: shame before a noble character and fear of the god Eros (243c).

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Socrates illustrates this motivation through the model of the poet Stesichorus of Himera who, when stricken with blindness for speaking ill of Helen, being "of the Muses," understood the cause of his blindness and therefore immediately wrote a recantation, resulting in the recovery of his vision (243a-b). Stesichorus's recognition of his error in mistaking the appearance for the reality in the case of the beautiful constitutes the fitting model for Socrates' recognition of his error in the case of love as desire for the beautiful.4 If Helen represents the beautiful, the object of desire for the poets, it is eros itself which represents the object of desire for Socrates. The immediacy of Stesichorus's recantation suggests that it is not the result of, but identical with, his being "of the Muses," while his immediate recovery of vision is not the result of, but identical with, the knowledge exhibited in the poem. The relation between sin and blindness, or purification and vision, which is presented mythologically as chronological cause and effect, must be understood philosophically as an act which is identical with its own reward or punishment. It is, perhaps, the acknowledgment of this identity which accounts for Socrates' "greater wisdom" than his ancient teachers (cf. 243b). Socrates thus issues a warning against the distortion of the philosophic relation between an image and what it represents by the mythological presentation of that relation as one of cause and effect. This distortion underlies Socrates' forthcoming mythological account, which presents the activity of the soul as a cause of its subsequent reward or punishment, while the effect of reward or punishment is itself held responsible for the condition of the soul. Before entering into that mythological account, however, Socrates claims to contain within himself, simultaneously, the source of ignorance and punishment, as well as that of recognition and recovery; he dramatizes this self-containment by reversing his self-blinding during the first speech with the gesture of unveiling for the next (243b). The bitter taste of the previous feast must be washed out by the sweet taste that follows. When Socrates advises Lysias to do the same, Phaedrus promises to compel him, commanding Socrates to speak courageously, as one would spur a contestant about to enter some competition. Despite Phaedrus's eager delight simply to hear another speech, Socrates must first confirm its double motivation, in love of the truth and concern for Phaedrus's soul. The shame Socrates originally blamed on the presence of Phaedrus (237a) he now attributes to the thought of a "noble and gentle character," having knowledge of a free love, who would attribute the previous portrait of love to men brought up among sailors (243c). That Phaedrus is moved by this appeal to his sense of shame, and to his desire for identifying himself with the "noble and gentle character," is betrayed by his enthusiastic response (with an oath by Zeus) to Socrates' condemnation of the shamelessness o f the previous speeches.

Through the narrative frame of his first speech, Socrates uncovered the direct discourse of Lysias's speech as the address of a concealed lover to his anonymous beloved. Now that he speaks for the lover, Socrates replaces the narrative frame by direct discourse, presumably addressed to Phaedrus, as the "beautiful boy"

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whose favors are being-sought (24 3e). Socrates wafns us that this sweet speech is itself a persuasive effort intended to prevent this particular beloved from favoring a nonlover. Although he abandons the narrative frame of his first speech, Socrates nevertheless attempts to distance himself from the speech he now utters as a recantation; while responsibility for the first speech is assigned to Phaedrus of Myrrhinus, whose name indicates his "eagerness for fame," responsibility for the second speech is assigned to Stes ichor us of Himera, whose name indicates his connection with "pious speech of desire" (244a). With these opening etymologies, Socrates sets the tone for his encomium of divine madness.5 Socrates begins his recantation by affirming its polemic intention: the purpose of his speech is to refute the claim that a nonlover should be favored over a lover. Recognizing that the persuasive power—and the germ of truth—in Lysias's speech lies in its attack, not against eros as eros, but against eros as madness, Socrates must demonstrate that madness is not necessarily an evil, but, when it is a gift of the gods, the source of the greatest blessings. It is this polemic purpose which compels the first, though perhaps not the true, beginning of Socrates' mythic hymn: the necessary basis for the defense of eros against art is the collection of the class of "divine madness," of which eros will be shown to be one member. Socrates makes no claim to the exhaustiveness of his initial collection; although this seemingly arbitrary series has been foreshadowed in the prelude to the speech, the collection of forms of divine madness looks like nothing but a product of inspiration. If competition with Lysias motivates the starting point of Socrates' speech, with its arbitrary collection of kinds of madness, that initial motivation would be transcended only if and when Socrates reaches the ground for a defense of eros, which would no longer appear arbitrary and would thus constitute the true starting point of the speech. While the consideration of divine madness allows Socrates to identify eros as. one of its parts, the analysis of that part in fact reveals the madness of eros to be the moving force of every soul, hence not a part but the whole.6 Eros of the beautiful then becomes no longer one example of madness alongside prophecy, purification, and poetry, but the principle determining all human soul-types, and their highest manifestation. The arbitrary character of Socrates' initial consideration of four examples of divine madness is thus overcome only when the class of madness is revealed to be coextensive with eros, and its proper internal articulation identified with the division between divine and human. Socrates indicates the status of his collection of divine madness by beginning with an etymological connection between madness (mania) and prophecy (mantike), considered the most beautiful art because of its power to judge the future (244c). T h e absence of control or self-interested calculation is a sign of the divine

source of the power belonging to the inspired prophetess of Delphi, the priestess of Dodona, the Sibyl, and others. Their inspiration must be contrasted with the sane investigation of birds and other signs practiced through the oionistic art,7 whose name indicates the activity of supplying mind (nous) and information

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(/iistorid) to human thought (oiesis) through the intellect {dianoia) (244c-d). Not despite but because of his playful etymologies, Socrates ridicules his own praise of madness; while the ancients testify to the superiority of the mantic art over the oionistic "both in name and in deed," Socrates in fact admits that the gift of the gods, handed down through the madness of the inspired prophet, must be contrasted with all forms of human reason; since the artfulness of human interpretation stands outside the gift of prophetic madness, the fulfillment of the potential benefit of that madness must depend upon what is wholly other than itself.8 The same silent self-ridicule is reflected in the second form of divine madness—that of purifications and mystic rites to obtain release from evils arising from some ancient heritage of guilt. For the "diseases and greatest evils" which are visited on certain families through some ancient guilt seem to be identical with the madness which comes in and provides, through oracular powers, a release for those in need: the blessing of madness is release from madness. Taking refuge in prayers and services to the gods, the sufferer who practices purification should be "out of danger" for the present and for all future time; but in concluding that "he who is correctly possessed by madness has discovered a release from present evils," Socrates suggests that the benefit of madness is simply the state of self-forgetfulness it produces. Socrates' praise of the divine madness of purification, moreover, appeals to the mythical conception of inherited guilt, but in the cosmic myth he is about to deliver, Socrates understands the inherited guilt of birth, which constitutes man's original sin, to be nothing but ignorance of the truth covered over with the "food of human opinion" (cf. 248b). 9 Contrary to what he later says about assigning each of the forms of divine madness to a particular god (265b), Socrates specifies the source of divine inspiration only in relation to the third form of madness—that possession by the Muses inspiring a pure and simple soul who, "adorning thousands of ancient deeds, educates later generations" (245a). Like the self-interested augurer or the guiltridden sufferer not released by madness from the usual laws, the sane man who wishes to produce poetry by art, without madness, can accomplish nothing. The imitative art of the self-conscious poet, who calls upon the Muses as a poetic image for the state of inspiration, Socrates reduces to the deceptive calculation of an imposter. In his identification of poetry as all madness and no art, Socrates betrays the partial perspective of his mythic hymn, motivated by the desire to demonstrate the blessings of divine madness over against the claims of conventional moderation. Socrates therefore praises the self-forgetful inspiration of the poet, but this very condition, which accounts for the poet's inability to investigate the truth of what he imitates, constitutes the paradigm of the tragic flaw in all

states of possession.10 If, in fact, a "pure and simple soul" were able to produce a poetic "cosmos" in and through the madness of divine inspiration, he would be only an intermediary between the deeds of the ancients, which he adorns, and the desire for wisdom in men of later generations, whom he educates. The

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blessing delivered iu and through-the divine madness of the poet could be realized only in and through the artful human examination of his inspired creations. Having gathered this collection of the "beautiful deeds" resulting from divine madness, Socrates admits its nonexhaustive status: he can mention these and many more (245b). 11 He therefore proceeds to the fundamental argument of the speech, the demonstration that ems too is a form of madness sent by the gods for human happiness. Insofar as it is to be determined in light of the models of divine madness already established, eros would have to be understood in contrast to all human reason; its benefit would have to consist in the illusory state of self-forgetfulness it produces, and its potential blessing could be realized only through its artful transformation. The examples Socrates chooses to illustrate divine madness only show the superiority of divinely inspired prophecy, purification, and poetry to their calculating human counterparts, without demonstrating that no human art could be superior to madness in general; Socrates' praise of the divine madness of eros should, then, only show the superiority of divinely inspired love to its calculating human counterpart, without claiming its superiority to every human art. The demonstration (apodeixis) of eros as divine madness, Socrates warns, will not be believed by the merely clever, but only by the wise (243c); the clever who may not be the wise must be those "sophisticated" nonbelievers who would insist, as Socrates explained in his response to Phaedrus's inquiry, upon replacing a muthos about eros with a logos about death, and would thus be incapable of seeing the truth of the myth as an account of the human soul (cf. 229d-230a). The examination of divine eros necessarily begins, therefore, with a demonstration of the "truth about the nature of soul, divine and human" (245c). 12 The true beginning for an account of eros emerges only with a consideration of soul, which Socrates is about to identify as self-moving motion and the beginning (arche) of all becoming. If Socrates remembers the advice in his first speech— that the beginning determines what the counsel is about (2-37c)—he would now imply that the self-moving motion of soul is itself eros; indeed, every soul, as Socrates' image will soon portray, is determined by the particular form of the madness of eros that moves it. While seeing (idonta) the sufferings and deeds of the soul, it is necessary to conceive (noesdi) the truth about its nature. The clue to the significance of this disjunction between seeing and conceiving lies in the division between Socrates' imagistic myth of the journey of the soul as an account of the experience of eros, and the arche of his demonstration, defining the being and logos of soul as self-moving motion. The distinction which comes to light within this initial argument—between soul as self-moving motion and body which relies on soul as its source of motion—seems to have its self-referential reflection in the structure of the speech itself: the logos which constitutes the arche of the demonstration must have the same relation to the imagistic account which follows from it, as

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soul "itself by itself would have to the living body with soul as its source of motion. The demonstration of the "truth about the nature of soul, divine and human" begins with its desired conclusion: "Pasa psuche is deathless" (245c). With the unexamined ambiguity of its subject—"all soul" collectively or "each and every soul" individually—the demonstration of immortality fails to satisfy that demand for knowledge of soul with regard to the whole and its parts, which Socrates first introduced as the goal of his own pursuit of self-knowledge, and later identifies as the necessary foundation for any art of speaking. The same ambiguity concealed in the analysis of "all soul/every soul" will be repeated—not accidentally—in the principle Socrates later establishes for the artful construction of speech with organic unity: the wholeness of a living animal is the proper standard for "all logos/every logos" (cf. 264c). Socrates begins with the proof that "all soul" is deathless with the claim that the ever-moving is deathless, without justifying his implicit assumption of the identity of life and motion. Although the argument would seem to call for a proof that soul is ever-moving, Socrates first attempts to establish that only the selfmoving is ever-moving, since that which moves something else or is moved by something else, when it ceases to move, ceases to live. WTiile only the selfmoving, and not that which moves something else, is said to be ever-moving, Socrates does not take up the problem of the self-moving that is simultaneously responsible for moving something else; he silently indicates a possible tension between soul that would be ever-moving insofar as it is only self-moving, and soul insofar as it is the source of motion for body, which would therefore cease to live when it ceased moving. Having established that only that which moves itself, since it is not directed outside itself, never ceases to move, the argument should now have the task of proving that soul is precisely this self-moving. But that proof is delayed by what seems to be a digression, in which the self-moving is identified as the beginning of all things that are in motion. The digression that delays the identification of soul as ever-moving, self-moving motion is determined precisely by that tension implicit in the first stage of the argument—between soul as simply self-motion and soul as the source of motion for body. In turning from the proof of the self-moving as ever-moving to the proof of the self-moving which is directed outside itself, the argument admits its hypothetical condition: the beginning of all things in motion must be the self-moving, and this self-moving beginning must be ungenerated and indestructible, for if this were not the case, "all the heavens and all genesis" would come to rest and never again have any source of motion. 13 Given the existence of an eternal world of becoming, the beginning itself must be ungenerated, for if it were generated from anything outside itself, it would not be generated from a beginning. Nor can the beginning itself ever be destroyed, for if it were, not only could nothing else be generated from it, but it could never be generated from anything else, since everything must be generated

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from the beginnings-Only the self-moving, therefore, can provide the everpresent beginning of all motion, and this beginning can be neither generated nor destroyed if there is to be becoming at all. The expansion of the proof identifying the self-moving with the ever-moving to the identification of the self-moving with the beginning of all motion seems to be based upon the desire to demonstrate self-moving soul as the necessary source of motion for body. 14 The apparently superfluous character of this expansion is confirmed by the conclusion of the proof, which seems merely to repeat the conclusion of the original argument, that the self-moving has been shown to be deathless. Although Socrates began with the attempt to prove that soul is immortal on the basis of proving that the self-moving is immortal, he now seems to appeal to a pious acceptance of the immortality of soul as a basis for identifying soul as the self-moving. While Socrates has provided a logical argument to demonstrate that the self-moving is ever-moving, and in that sense immortal, he only claims it would be "not shameful" to identify the self-moving as the "being [ousid] and speech [fogos] of soul" (245e). 15 With this definition posited, the nature of soul as ungenerated and immortal can finally be affirmed, although the identification of the immortal and the self-moving with soul is, however honorable, not a deductive necessity. The logos which succeeds in demonstrating that the self-moving is ever-moving, and that as the source of all becoming it must be ungenerated and indestructible, must appeal to shame in identifying this selfmoving motion as the being of soul. The question of the identification of the self-moving and ever-moving points to the ambiguity in the meaning of "all soul," which has supposedly been demonstrated to be ungenerated and immortal. To uncover that meaning, the logical argument for the immortality of all soul, introduced as the necessary arche for the proof that love is a form of divine madness, must be considered in light of the mythical image of the individual soul which follows it. The description of the experience of eros based on that image portrays the source of motion in the soul of the lover as a lack; the final cause of motion for the lover is the apparent fullness of perfection in the beloved as the object of desire. Insofar as the final cause represents the beginning of motion, soul can be understood as self-moving only if it contains within itself the object of desire which moves it. 16 But while the inclusion of the object of desire within the soul is necessary for the possibility of self-motion, the perpetuation of desire itself is necessary for the possibility of eternal motion, for if desire sets the soul in motion, its fulfillment would bring the soul to rest. The relation between desire and the object of desire mirrors the paradoxical tension and interdependence of self-motion and eternal motion, for the self-moving motion of soul can be eternal only if its object of desire is both included within itself and yet always beyond its reach. What is self-moving and ever-moving must, then, be identified with the completeness of soul as collective whole, not the incompleteness of its individual parts. But just this assumption of the completeness of the self-moving motion of soul as a collective whole precludes the consideration of any telos of motion.

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Socrates' demonstration of immortality seems to assume the perspective of its subject: the soul which has self-motion as its ousia affirms the eternity of genesis as a whole, while it is cut off from recognition of any beings at rest. The illusion of self-sufficiency exhibited in the demonstration of the immortality of "all soul" is a fitting prelude for uncovering the illusion of eros, in which the lover "madly" seeks, through union with his beloved, the perfection of a self-sufficient whole. It is precisely what is missing in the abstract analysis of soul as self-moving motion that compels Socrates to supplement his initial argument for immortality with a consideration of the idea of the soul (246a). The tension between the demonstration of the immortality of soul as self-moving motion and the subsequent need for an examination of the idea of the soul is reflected in Socrates' mythical account as a tension between the eternally living gods and the dead ideai. The eternity of self-moving motion, which Socrates has "honorably" identified as the eternal life of all soul, provides a fitting opposition for the eternally deathlike immobility of the silent "beings beyond the heavens." But the logical argument for immortality gives an account of the eternal realm of becoming while it is silent about the beings. The logos on immortality, which seems to reflect the self-sufficiency of Socrates thinking to himself, provides an abstract account of soul as self-moving motion, but only Socrates' imagistic account of the experience of eros reveals the relation between the soul and the ideai. Socrates himself acknowledges the insufficiency of his logical demonstration; he has, after all, promised to portray the pathe and deeds of the human soul, and in order to do so he must supplement the argument for immortality with a description of the "look" of the soul. But while Socrates admits the necessity of speaking about the idea of the soul, he claims to be capable of only producing a likeness. In justifying this concession, Socrates must appeal to the distinction— which was absent from his demonstration of the immortality of all soul— between divine and human, which now emerges as a methodological principle of speech: "To tell what it is would be a completely divine and long narration, but to give a likeness is human and shorter" (246a). Socrates identifies the thought and speech of "embodied soul" with the ability to make a likeness as "embodiment" of the idea; the criterion which distinguishes human speech from divine speech seems, then, to mirror the criterion which distinguishes human mortality from divine immortality, that is, the connection of soul with body (cf. 246c-d). Body apart from soul is identified, in the initial demonstration of the immortality of soul, as that which has no principle of motion within itself. In light of Socrates' indication of the connection between body and image, the absence of self-motion in body might suggest the absence of self-motion in the image, which would thus seem to be a fitting representation of the unmoving idea. But the absence of motion in the idea is the sign of its self-sufficiency, whereas an image which presented itself with the implicit claim of self-sufficiency would conceal the being toward which it points. Only the image which, like a living body, could come to life by the motion of soul, would be capable of illuminating that which it represents. If the Platonic text presented itself as that "completely

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divine and long narration," which would constitute the adequate expression of an idea, it would dispense with its imagistic character as a dramatic representation. It is only by indicating its own non-self-sufficiency through the acknowledgment of its status as an image that the dialogue abandons any claim to be the adequate expression of an idea, hence a replacement of living thought; in pointing beyond itself to that of which it is merely an imitation, the dialogue realizes its potential for "self-moving motion." The immortality which Socrates now assigns to the self-moving motion of all soul, he finally attributes, through the metaphor of generation, to the cycle of legitimate logoi cultivated by the dialectic art (cf. 277a). The demonstration of immortality identifies the ousia and logos of soul as self-moving motion; in seeking a proper image which will reveal the deeds and sufferings of the individual soul, Socrates chooses a conveyance which may be said to be self-moving only when taken as a compound whole. But this image, "the composite power of winged horses and charioteer" (246a), 17 refers only to its parts, while the inanimate vehicle itself that unites these parts is never mentioned. 18 The image itself indicates, without explicitly acknowledging, that the growing together of these parts is not a natural phenomenon but only the result of their common function in a human artifact. Each part is simply and by nature a whole, but the whole itself is a complex unity which is not natural. If the unmentioned vehicle, as that which is moved, represents the body, it would seem that the separate parts which supposedly constitute the soul only come together in the presence of the body. Since, moreover, the same image is originally introduced for the souls of gods and men, Socrates seems to suggest from the outset that the gods of his mythic hymn, like the traditional gods of the poets, constitute man's projected image of his own nature. But the division between divine and human, first introduced through the distinction between the consideration of an idea and the production of an image, now shows up as a differentiation in the particular nature of the chariot team as an image for the soul: while the horses and the charioteer of the gods are "good and from the good," those of the others are "mixed" (246b). 19 The connection with an "earthly body," which marks the human state in distinction from the divine, necessarily determines the nature of the soul itself. The structural distinction of the human team is evaluated in terms of its function: the importance of the disparity between one horse's being a gentleman, "beautiful and good and from such," and the other's being "opposite and from the opposite," lies in the difficult and troublesome driving it causes (246b). The mixed nature of the human soul-team must be understood in light of the standard of the divine team, but Socrates acknowledges the deceptiveness of his imagistic speech, for it is only out of human ignorance that "we fabricate, neither seeing nor sufficiently knowing god, an immortal being with soul and body grown together for all time" (246d). As a projection of the human image to its desired state of perfection, the poet's fabrication of the gods seems to mirror the experience of eros, in which the lover projects his own ideal onto his chosen beloved, whom he worships as a god.

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But the fabricated gods, which may be nothing but man's idealized selfprojections, constitute at the same time the necessary standard for man's selfunderstanding. The human soul, with its mixed breed of horses, originally presented as a given fact of nature, must, therefore, be elaborated as the consequence of a fall from perfection (247b). While the fall seems to result from the lack of harmony in the team of horses, the disparity of the team is itself the result of the fall to imperfection. The inferiority of the human condition, defined by virtue of its distinction from the divine, can be accounted for only through the causal circularity between the limitations resulting from the given nature of the human soul and the deficiency of its own activity. The breed of horses which determines the human or divine status of the chariot-team is reflected in the condition of its wings, which seem to belong neither to the horses nor to the charioteer, but only to the unmentioned whole. While the task of caring for all that is without soul belongs to the perfect, fully winged "all soul," the task of originating motion for an individual body belongs to the soul which has lost its wings, becoming a living animal by taking on an earthly body (246b-c). Whereas the account of self-moving motion identifies "all soul" as a principle of life, Socrates now indicates that to be an "ensouled animal" is to be subject to death (246c). The condition of corporeality, hence mortality and individuality, characterizes the wing-growing human team in contrast with the divine; but Socrates betrays the problematic status of his image of the gods' winged chariot-team by acknowledging that the wing participates "more than anything else of the body" in the godlike (246c). The upward motion which constitutes the natural power of the wings represents the desire for the divine, that is, "the beautiful, the wise, the good, and all such" that nourish the wings, while the "shameful and the evil" are the cause of their destruction. But Socrates identifies the divine (to theion) which nourishes the wings of the soul in distinction from his image for the gods; the upward motion of the wings is directed, not toward the gods, who are themselves perfectly winged, but toward that which makes the gods godlike. In order to illustrate the loss of wings, which causes the fall of the human soul, in contrast with the fully winged divine soul, Socrates paints a portrait of the universe as the battlefield of a cosmic army, filled with squadrons of war chariots, in which the troops of human teams are divided by the taxis of the divine leaders whom they worship and follow (247a). In describing the divine leaders of this cosmic army, apparently representing the traditional twelve member corpus of the Olympian gods (oi dddeka theoi),20 Socrates imitates the poets, whose gods are only "beautifications" of human types.21 The boundaries of the celestial army of gods are constituted by its leader, Zeus, "ordering and caring for all," and by Hestia, who "alone remains in the house of the gods" (247a). Zeus is the general, the "first," whose supremacy implies universality.22 If Zeus is to the army of gods what the philosopher is to all men (cf. 252e), he must represent that principle of soul most aware of the whole as a whole. In contrast, Hestia, who represents the earth, the hearth, the private, whatever is most one's own, 23

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remains at rest in the center and hence obtains n
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the horses, representing the forces of movement in the soul, themselves require nectar and ambrosia (247e); the "colorless, formless, and intangible being" is insufficient for the nourishment of the soul as a whole. The chariots of the gods, nevertheless, ascend directly to the vision of the ideai, whereas the human team is impelled on its upward journey not by the love of wisdom, but by love of the particular god it follows. This distinction of the force which initiates the journey of the soul to the ideas is manifest in the character of that journey: in contrast with the ease of the divine journey, the human team is constantly pulled down by the earth-bound motion of the evil horse, dragging his charioteer toward the "utmost toil and struggle" (247b). The blessed vision of the life of the gods, therefore, has only a momentary appearance, quickly replaced by a scene of pain, struggle, competition, and frustration, with only sporadic and elusive satisfaction for those few "best following and most like god" (248a). Of these few, it is only the head of the charioteer which is intermittently raised into the outer region; the replacement of the whole by its highest part confirms the tension between mind and soul acknowledged even in the case of the gods. Excluded from the pasture of truth, the competing chariot teams beneath the surface are forced to feed upon "the food of opinion" (248b), a meadow which must apparently be cultivated by human art. The subordination of natural desire to acquired opinion, praised by the nonlover, is now shown to be nothing but that competition over illusions characterizing the human community exiled from the plain of truth. The failure of the human soul to sustain any comprehensive vision of the beings beyond the heavens, which itself constitutes its punishment, results from its inability to follow its divine leader. The result of this failure of the human soul is the loss of its wings and its consequent fall to earth, but Socrates assigns the cause of that fall not simply to the given nature of the human soul, but to "some accident" which makes the soul heavy with forgetfulness and evil (248c). The accident responsible for the fall of the human soul, caused by the misfortune of being turned toward injustice "through some kind of associations" (250a), is thus identical with the trampling and colliding, among the ignorant and the blind, beneath the surface of the upper region. The same circularity, in which the activity of the soul constitutes the cause of its own condition, is reflected in the "law of destiny" through which the divine poet announces a classification of the fallen human souls; while the hierarchical division of nine human soul-types is declared a "law of destiny," its ground is determined not by fate but by the proportion of the memory of the vision of truth incorporated in the "food of opinion." If the political community is represented by the meadow of opinion, which replaces the natural nourishment of the beings, the differentiation of individual soul-types would seem to be connected with the specialization of roles necessary for the unification of the polis.28 Yet the differentiation of human types representing a hierarchy of levels of awareness connected with the specialization of roles necessary for the political community,

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does not answer the question of why nine, and why these nine. Precisely because it is presented as a "law of destiny," the logical ground of this allegedly exhaustive set is absent, replaced only by an enigmatic clue to its meaning. 29 Socrates, poet of the "superuranian region," soon affirms that he has spoken of these mysteries in honor of memory (250c). The hierarchy of nine soul-types is generated by the power of memory, and the children of Memory are the nine Muses. Socrates ironically credits the artfulness of the Muses as the source of the divine madness of the poet, who educates later generations by adorning the deeds of the ancients (245a) and thus influences the gradations of memory which determine the hierarchy of human soul-types. The model for Socrates' mythic hymn is Stesichorus's recantation, resulting from the recognition of his own ignorance through being "of the Muses" (243a). It seems, then, to be the hierarchy of the nine Muses, daughters of Memory, which lies beneath Socrates' scale of human soul-types, whose moving principles are determined by the degree of their memory of the truth. 30 At the conclusion of his speech, Socrates relates a tale about the Muses, who appear in a hierarchy led by "the most beautifulvoiced Muses" of "heaven" and "divine and human logos" (259d). The power of the Muses, reflected in the power of the writing they inspire, suggests that only the poet inspired by the "philosophic Muse" 31 might transcend the dominion of opinion in order to regain his memory of the vision of the ideas. As the occasion for the human soul to recollect its journey with a god, Socrates praises the divine madness of eros; but the role of the Muses, as a model for the comprehensiveness of the vision which was the goal of that journey, points to the act of recollection initiated by the written word. Whereas Socrates began his speech delivered in the name of the nonlover with an invocation to the "shrill-voiced Muses" (237a), he replaces that address, at the conclusion of his speech praising the divine madness of love, with an invocation to the god Eros (257a). But Socrates acknowledges, in their later critical examination, only the playfulness of the speech uttered under the tyranny of the "despot Eros" (265c), while he attributes to the "prophets of the Muses" the artfulness of his speech for the nonlover (262d). The transition to this critical examination of the love-speeches is in fact accomplished through Socrates' myth about the Muses, which seems to confirm their symbolic significance of opposition to Eros. For the Muses punish their own.lovers with death, while they reward them by turning them into the tribe of cicadas who sing continuously with no need for the sustenance of life (259b-c). If the god Eros represents the deification of human desire, the Muses seem to represent the deification of human art, and the tension between Eros and the Muses reflects the tension between desire and art, between living conversation and the dead written word, which constitutes the theme of the dialogue. It is the "fountain of the nymphs and Muses" which Socrates identifies as the source of the message Phaedrus is finally commanded to deliver to the "writers in the city" (278b-c), and that message is nothing but the Platonic dialogue itself. The "law of destiny" which Socrates announces establishes a hierarchy of nine

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human soul-types determined by levels of memory, based on the model of the hierarchy of the nine Muses, but this division is preceded by a hierarchy of soul-types based on the cosmic army of twelve gods with their troops of human worshippers, each of whom follows the god most like himself. The opposition of the Muses and the god Eros thus seems to be generalized in the opposition of the Muses and the twelve gods, as models which determine the classification of human souls. These conflicting classifications, moreover, establish a division of soul-types each of which is apparently a unity in itself, but Socrates began his speech with a universal division of every soul into a winged team of paired horses and charioteer. Socrates offers no explicit explanation of the relation between the division of nine soul-types determined by the memory of the vision of the beings beyond the heavens, the twelve classes of soul determined by the worship of a particular god, the initial tripartite of the chariot-team as an eikon of the soul, 32 and the unity of "all soul" which provided the arche for his demonstration of love as divine madness. By refusing to integrate these diverse divisions, Socrates hints at the tension between the immortal, self-moving motion of soul as principle of life, and the nature of the individual human soul, which is itself determined by the tension of a double principle based on knowledge of the ideai and eros of another individual who is worshipped like a god. Socrates' inability to provide a determinate "arithmetic" of the structure of the soul's whole and its parts is a sign of the status of his mythic hymn, presented in opposition to the two speeches condemning the madness of human eros without illuminating that whole which would comprehend all the love-speeches as parts. The absence of a determinate analysis of the structure of the soul's whole and its parts reflects the absence of one unifying speech on eros as a whole; this problem is rendered explicit only in the later critical examination, which attempts to unite the opposing love-speeches as parts of one whole while establishing, as the primary requirement for the true art of speaking, knowledge of the nature of soul through recognition of its unity and divisions (cf. 271a, 271d, 273d, 277b-c). Without resolving the problem of the simplicity or complexity of soul, Socrates transforms the apparently fixed hierarchy announced through the "law of destiny" by asserting the possibility, within any particular level, of living justly or unjustly, thereby obtaining a better or worse fate (248e). With this addition, Socrates seems to imply the independence of moral virtue from determination by either eros or the vision of the ideas; an unjust philosopher is, it appears, no more impossible than a just tyrant.33 Individual responsibility for destiny, based on the just or unjust fulfillment of any role in life, is grounded in a cosmic scheme; every fallen soul, accordingly, must go through ten 1,000-year cycles, each consisting in an earthly life followed by a period of reward or punishment, at the end of which time the soul must choose its next life. 34 The previous division of nine soul-types is now reorganized into two, where the first class, represented by the "undeceiving philosopher" or "one whose love for boys is conjoined with philosophy" (249a) constitutes the human standard in light of

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which all other classes are defective. Only the philosopher, exempt from the ten-period cycle, is allowed three successive periods of his choice of life in order to regain the wings of his soul, foreshadowing the coming reference to the philosopher's victory in the "three truly Olympic contests" (256b). The principle that distinguishes the class of philosophers as most godlike makes the philosopher the standard for all men, and thus serves as the criterion for distinguishing the human from the subhuman. The minimum requirement for entry into a human nature is some vision of "the beings which always are," which shows up in life as the recollection of the vision beheld in the journey with god. But this requirement for the soul which is to be human recalls the original tension between the initiating stimulus of the journey of the human soul in the love of that god most like itself, and its final purpose of regaining the vision of the whole.35 The only possible resolution of this tension lies with the philosopher, who, in his love of another individual, remains in contact through memory, as far as possible, with "those things whose presence makes the gods godlike" (249c). The philosopher is the only human type whose mind is "winged." The sign of initiation into the vision of the beings is reflected in human life as the ability to "grasp together by eidos, proceeding from the many perceptibles to a unity, which is gathered together through reasoning [logismo]" {249b—c). It is the language of initiation into the mysteries which is used, paradoxically, to describe the activity of grasping a class by collecting many into one through speech (cf. 249c-d). The ultimate mystery, the divine madness which is the object of Socrates' praise, is none other than the act of reasoning, the particular power of the philosopher, who thus constitutes the standard of what it means to be human. Because of his separation from human interests governed by the sovereignty of opinion, however, the philosopher cannot be recognized by the many as the ultimate human standard, but is considered a victim of distraction rather than of god-filled enthusiasm (249d), The traditional alienation of the initiate from the polis is transformed by Socrates into the separation of the philosopher from the many. But the opinion of the many is in a sense true, for the philosopher is in truth mad; while the madness of eros determines every soul-type, Socrates only explicitly mentions madness in reference to the philosopher. The central sentence of the speech, which follows the description of the philosophic soul, serves as a reminder that the subject of the whole has been the fourth kind of divine madness, the experience of unattainable longing for the memory of what is true evoked by the present vision of the beautiful (249d). The human soul is a wingless, wing-growing bird, and eros of the beautiful is its essential nature. If the distinctive experience of the soul is its initiation into "the most blessed of mysteries," human life is defined by this experience as the ultimate object of desire, which is nonetheless unattainable for the soul entombed in the body, like "an oyster in its shell" (250c). The divine madness of eros is nothing but an unfulfillable longing, and yet it is the "best and from the best of all inspirations" (249e). Socrates seems to describe only the first soul-type,

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the lover of the beautiful; but insofar as every soul is moved by what it finds beautiful, this one type is itself a true representative of all. Like Zeus among the gods, the primacy of the philosopher or lover of beauty implies his universality. All other soul-types represent the internal articulations of the love of beauty, determined by decreasing levels of the power of memory of the truth. The central sentence of the speech thus reveals the praise of eros to be in fact an encomium of memory as the essential requirement of the human condition (250c). The possibility of the divine madness of eros depends upon the possibility of recollection, but the soul has fallen into the human condition precisely because of its state of forgetfulness. Cast out from the "vision of the perfect and simple and unmoving and happy apparitions seen in the pure light" (250c), 36 human life is constituted by the longing for the recollection of that whole from which it is exiled. The power to elicit that recollection lies, not in the obscure likenesses of justice, moderation, and "the others honored by souls," but only in the brilliance of the vision of the beautiful (250b). The love-inspiring vision of the beautiful, perceived through sight, the sharpest of the senses, cannot illuminate "wisdom and the other beloveds" (250d);37 Socrates seems to imply that the beautiful is precisely what shines forth when any eidos becomes apparent, that the manifestation of any invisible eidos is the beautiful itself.38 But the shining seductiveness of the beautiful inspires a state of amazement, 39 characterized by the loss of self-control and by the absence of self-understanding (250a); in his exaltation of the vision of the beautiful, Socrates hints at the distortion involved in his attempt to praise the madness of eros over against the moderation of all human art. The center of the speech is marked with the definition of the madness of eros as eros of the beautiful; the value of that madness lies in its power as reminder of the crucial experience which determines the nature of every soul. Socrates now proceeds to translate that crucial experience in terms of its reflection in human life, through a portrait of the effect of the beautiful on the lover who desires it. The forgetfulness exhibited by one who is not newly initiated, or by one who has been corrupted, obliterates fear and shame, and thus allows the lover to surrender to pleasure, "mounting in the way of the four-footed and begetting children," or "pursuing pleasure against nature" (25 la). In contrast, the memory of the newly initiated, or uncorrupted, producing the old awe of the vision of the beings, leads to the lover's "revering the beautiful one as a god" (251a). In the presence of his beloved, the lover is overcome with shuddering, sweat, and burning heat. The stream of the beautiful, which flows from the beloved, enters the lover through his eyes and warms him, watering the passages of his wings, allowing the hard and choked ducts to become soft so that the wings can grow from roots all over the soul ( 2 5 1 b ) . 4 0 Erotic passion is marked by the intense

mingling of pain, from the pricking and throbbing in the roots of the wings, with temporary pleasure, from the sight of the beautiful one, warming and moistening the passages (251c). The very account which praises the lover's restraint from surrender to pleasure portrays the experience of eros in the language of sexual

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love;41 the image of the soul which is apparently in complete separation from the body suggests the relation between sexual desire and the principle of upward motion. 42 The lover's need for the healing powers of his beloved, as well as the lover's reverence for his beauty, results in disdain for the conventions of the city. The sufferer from the divine madness of eros, no less than the sufferer of human madness, is forgetful of mother, brother, and friends, inattentive to property and its maintenance, disdainful of laws and good appearances, and willing to give up all freedom and become a slave to the beloved (252a). The lover, suffering divine or human madness, not only abandons any self-centered desire for gain, but neglects all the demands of family and city. The tension between the privacy of eros and the public claims of the city, already manifest in the contempt for the philosopher by the many, remains the common assumption of both the speeches which praise and those which condemn the madness of eros.43 Having described the suffering of the lover, Socrates in his inspired state relates the gods' name for the condition which men call eros. 44 The claim to know the language of the gods constitutes the hubris of the "not exactly metrical" verses which Socrates recites from the hidden poems of the Homeridae (232b): "Mortals call him 'Winged Love' [Erota potenon], immortals T h e Winged' [Pterota], because of the necessity of wing-growing" (252t*-c). The poet's self-deceptive hubris in claiming to know the language of the gods is inseparable from the selfdeceptive hubris of the lover himself, who imitates the gods without awareness of his imperfection. Only the immortals, being fully winged, perceive the necessity for the growth of wings on the part of the lover, while mortals, deprived of the natural power of the wings, attribute the perfection of the divine to the state of unsatisfiable desire. In the hubristic verses which Socrates recites, Eros is revealed as the god, insofar as the deification of love illuminates the process operative in the creation of all men's gods: love, the state of desire or need, is mistaken for that perfection for which it strives, just as each god must represent the assignment of perfection to the particular desires of individual men. A transformation of the original story of the maiden Oreithyia, carried off by the god Boreas, thus underlies the portrait of every human soul as victim of the "winged god," 45 captured by its desire for the idealization of its own self-identity. The lover, in choosing a beloved, finds a mirror for the nature of the god he worships; since, however, the lover can discover his proper beloved only by searching within himself (253a), the madness of eras is nothing but the lover's experience of grasping by memory the nature of the god he follows.46 The circularity of the law of destiny is, then, reflected in the portrait of the lover, who chooses a particular beloved as a mirror of the god he follows in accordance with his own nature, while developing that nature by conducting himself in imitation of that god. Just as the crucial experience of the vision of the beings is both the ground and the result of the level of awareness which determines the "type" to which each individual belongs, so the distinctive worship of a particular god is both the ground and the result of the lover's choice of a beloved and the conduct

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of that relationship. But the experience of love for another individual is neither identical with nor independent of the soul's memory of the vision of the ideas; the problem of the relation between the vision of the "beings outside the heavens" and the pursuit of the god most like oneself thus represents the problem of the relation between knowledge of the whole and eras based on selfknowledge. Through his attraction to a particular beloved, the lover discovers the god he must follow in accordance with his own nature. The stream of the beautiful through which the god inspires his follower is therefore diverted upon the beloved, who shines, not as the source of illumination, but as the reflection of a reflection (253a). The lover, however, treats his beloved as a god, honoring him like a statue (252d). The dissonance tormenting the soul of the lover is intensified by the paradox of his desire for a petrification of the self-motion of the beloved's soul along with his desire for that living response which cannot be received from a statue. In the luminous appearance of his beloved, the lover sees the perfection of a god, not recognizing that this perfection is the reflected idealization of the fragmented perspective of his own individuality. That longing for the whole which might alleviate the fragmentation of individual perspective is only sought, madly, in the experience of eros.47 The same circularity which the lover actively performs in choosing a god after his own nature and then imitating that god in his behavior, is applied passively to the beloved, who is chosen for his likeness to the god and then led to develop as far as possible into that "practice and form" (253b). The lover's activity of modeling his own behavior after the god he follows is, therefore, both the reason for and the result of his effort at "persuading and ordering" the beloved to follow the same path (253b). This effort can only intensify the beloved's appreciation of the lover himself, and thus support the lover's lack of "jealousy or illiberal hostility" (253b); but the lover's effort to make the beloved more like himself seems in fact to be a sign of the lover's slavery to his own self-love.48 If, however, jealousy betrays a lack of confidence in one's own desirability, hence a lack of true selflove, then the absence of jealousy must signify that love of self in the good man, who recognizes the worth of his own condition and desires the same for his beloved, 49 The problem of understanding eros as a relation between likes or unlikes50—a question originally raised by the drama of the dialogue—is presented in Socrates' mythic hymn, not in terms of a static dichotomy, but in terms of a process of development. As a manifestation of the beautiful, the beloved appears unlike his lover, and thus reminds the lover of the perfection which he finds lacking in himself; but the very perception of that beauty requires the likeness of the beloved to his lover, who seems like a Corybantic worshipper, sensitive only to the strain of the one god possessing him and unaware of all others (253a). 51 The otherness of the beloved, which is embraced by the lover, seems to be both a force of attraction, necessary for stimulating the ascent to the vision of the whole, and a deception, concealing the likeness of the beloved as an obstacle to the vision

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of the whole. The only*!over who might escape this obstacle would be one who persuaded his beloved to move in his own likeness by pursuing that object of love which is inanimate and nonindividualized, that is, the vision of "the beings which always are." In contrast with the relation between the soul as lover and its inanimate object of love, the enounter of two individuals would seem necessarily to represent a bonding of likes. But precisely because they are each independently alive and responsive, the natural bonding of lover and beloved can have no guaranteed mutuality. While the lover draws the waters of inspiration from the beauty of his beloved, his attempt to pour it out upon the beloved takes the form of lovespeeches, persuading the beloved to find his own ideal in the lover who pursues him while claiming to lead him. When Socrates speaks of the happiness which the true lover brings to his "captured" beloved (253c), he acknowledges the element of compulsion in the lover's hunting of his quarry. If erotic necessity binds the lover to the beloved by nature, he is compelled to capture the beloved by art in order to bind him to himself with that same bond. 52 An elaboration of the capture of the beloved requires an examination of the inner forces of the individual soul, hence a return to the image of the soul, as yoked horses and charioteer, with which the speech began. The complex divisibility of the soul suggested by the original image of the chariot-team is brought into focus only in the closing section of the speech, in contrast with the assumption of the unity of the individual soul underlying both the description of the cosmic army with its divine and human troops, and the description of the particular lover pursuing the beloved most like the god he follows. The division of soul comes to light only with the internal condition of civil war, distinctive of the human soul in contrast with the divine. The two-dimensional scene of the chariot race, with its competing and colliding teams, is thus given depth by the drama of the rebellion and compulsion going on within the individual teams themselves. The development of Socrates' "mythic hymn" suggests that recognition of the nature of soul as simple or complex depends upon the horizon from which it is considered; in his mythic hymn in praise of the divine madness of eros, Socrates thus hints at the difficulty in his later demand for an "arithmetic" of soul as the necessary basis for a true art of speaking (cf. 273e). The "soul-chariot" provides an image for the experience of being carried away by inner forces which seem like alien beings with wills of their own, while denying any natural unity of these forces with the being who is moved. The internal strife raging within the divided soul results not only from the attempt of the charioteer to control his team, but from the struggle with their conflicting natures of the yoked horses themselves, for "the more beautiful horse is straight, well-articulated, tall, hook-nosed, white, dark-eyed, lover of honor with moderation and shame, companion of true opinion, needing no whip, driven only by command and speech, while the other is crooked, heavy, randomly put together, stout and thick-necked, snub-nosed, dark-colored, with grey and bloodshot eyes,

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companion of hubris and pride, shaggy-eared and deaf, scarcely obedient to whip and spurs" (253d-e). The clue to the respective functions of the dark and white horse seems to be provided in Socrates' first speech, where the "two ruling ideas in us" are said to be the "natural desire for pleasure" and "acquired opinion striving for the best" (cf. 237e), while the absence of a higher principle reflects the absence of a consideration of soul apart from body. The white horse, restrained through shame and wonder by the command of the charioteer, wets the whole soul with sweat; the dark horse, leaping forward toward the beloved, is restrained by the bit, which covers his tongue and jaws with blood. 53 In the portrait of the cosmic army, the destruction of the wings of the soul is not simply the subsequent effect of, but the very condition of, its fall from the upper region; in the portrait of the dissension within the individual soul, the punishment of the dark horse is not simply the result of a willful act of the charioteer, but is necessarily concomitant with his natural response of falling back in reverence before the beautiful (254c). In the framework of the cosmic drama, it is the human soul that acts as tragic hero, aspiring to what is inevitably beyond reach; in the framework of the internal drama, it is the dark horse that takes over the role of tragic hero, humbled and made wise through suffering (cf. 254e). The hubristic dark horse, stout and snub-nosed, looks just like Socrates himselfl54 Insofar as the dark horse has taken over in the internal drama the role played by the whole soul in the cosmic drama, Socrates would seem to mistake the whole for one part, to project his own soul as universal; in presenting the dark horse as an image for himself, however, Socrates in fact reveals his selfidentification with one part of "all soul." The dark horse, who is ugly and evil, not even susceptible to the power of speech, the source of the troublesome driving that plagues the charioteer of the human soul, is nevertheless the moving principle of eros, which Socrates praises as the source of our greatest blessings. In this dark horse, which provides the distinguishing characteristic of the human soul-team in contrast with the divine, Socrates sees himself. If the dark horse is by nature a rebel, the white horse is by convention a gentleman and good citizen of the polity of the soul. 55 While the dark horse seems to be Socrates' image of himself, the white horse displays its unlikeness to Socrates through its role in the erotic experience; the white horse, tall and beautiful, is the beloved, only dragged by his rebellious partner into the activity of a lover. Ruled by the fear of shame and the love of honor, the white horse seems to represent the hidden presence of politically determined opinion in the individual soul. The white horse is, then, an image of Phaedrus's soul, into which Socrates looks, as in a mirror whose reflection is distorted by its own qualities, to see himself; the inclusion of the white horse in Socrates' image of the soul demonstrates the connection between his art of erotics and his pursuit of self-knowledge. Between the passionate dark horse and the restraining charioteer of Socrates' eikon of the soul, the white horse, torn in both directions, serves as a

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necessary bond; Socrate^ who praises the divine madness of the true lover, can communicate with Lysias, who praises the detached sanity of the nonlover, only through the mediation of Phaedrus, torn between them (cf. 257b). If the human soul is to follow the divine so that the lovers lead a blessed life on earth, the dark horse must submit to the restraint of his partner or to the compulsion of the charioteer, while the white horse must submit to the spoken commands of the charioteer. The reflection of this process in the dialogue consists in the submission of nature, in its subhuman manifestation, to human opinion, and the submission of human opinion, to nature in its superhuman manifestation; the madness of love as Lysias understands it must be subordinated to the mortal prudence of the nonlover, which must in turn be subordinated to the divine madness of love, identified with the natural desire for wisdom. The unacknowledged unity comprehending the parts of the chariot-team in Socrates' eikort of the soul is thus the appropriate image for the unacknowledged unity comprehending the three speeches on eros.56 It is, however, only by yielding to the compulsion of the dark horse that the charioteer is brought to the radiant face of the beloved, then carried through memory to the nature of the beautiful, apprehended as a statue with moderation and purity (254b). The transformation of the charioteer in the presence of the beloved links him more closely to the natural force of desire moving the dark horse than to the conventional force of shame restraining the white one. The moderation of acquired opinion, praised by the nonlover in Socrates' first speech, may be a greater obstacle than the madness of human eros to the fulfillment of the divine madness of philosophic eros praised in Socrates' mythic hymn; the victory of conventional moderation over the human madness of eros may, at the same time, represent the fundamental obstacle to the transformation which would realize the potential value of that alienation from the madness of eros suggested by Lysias's silent art of writing. The possible convergence of Socrates' erotic dialectics and the Platonic dialectic art of writing seems to require the same rejection of acquired opinion, the same acknowledgment of non-selfsufficiency, which is exhibited by eros in its human, no less than its divine, manifestation. Because Socrates understands the nature of eros in light of the imperfection of desire, his mythic hymn, unlike the first two speeches, is composed from the viewpoint of the lover, not the beloved; when Socrates finally turns to an analysis of the response of the beloved, he focuses attention on the beloved himself becoming a lover.57 The beloved, who is honored by his lover as if he were equal to a god, is by nature friendly to the lover who cares for him; his rejection of a true lover can only be the unnatural result of being "set at variance by some schoolfellows or some others" (255a). These deceptive companions who mislead the beloved, claiming "it is shameful to associate with a lover" (255a), must be identical with those associates who deter the growth of the wings of the soul, replacing memory of the truth with the forgetfulness of human opinion (cf.

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250a). With the passage of time, however, this unnatural influence on the beloved is overcome by the destiny of the attraction of likes, which leads him to respond to a true lover with like affection (255b). 58 The possibility of mutual affection between lover and beloved, brought into question by the speech of Lysias, is guaranteed by the "impossibility of friendship between the evil and the necessity of friendship between the good" (255b). Socrates deals with the problem of justice in love by replacing eros with friendship, and assuming the inevitability of such friendship only between the good. 59 The self-forgetfulness of the inspired lover nonetheless overwhelms the beloved, who must rank this affection above that of "all other friends and kin" (255b). The lover's self-forgetful good will, which converts the beloved to a lover, is revealed through the intimacy of "speech and companionship" (255b). The possibility of reciprocity in love depends upon the lover's ability to illuminate himself with beautiful speeches in response to the natural beauty which illuminates the beloved. The replacement for the visual image of the beautiful, which was said to be lacking for "wisdom and the other beloveds" (250d), consists in the art of speaking, which has the power to render perceptible the beauty of the soul. To demonstrate the evolution of mutual friendship into mutual desire, Socrates returns to his earlier description of the experience of the lover. From its source in the beautiful, the stream of longing rushes toward the lover, 60 filling him and overflowing, rebounding back to the beautiful one and filling his soul with love (255c). 61 The desiring lover is thus transformed into a reflection of beauty, which in turn flows back through the eyes of the beloved, exciting the passages of his wings, watering and rousing their growth (255d). The beloved, lacking understanding and self-knowledge, sees himself in his lover as in a mirror. The requited love (anterota) of the beloved condemns him to a self-love which is not even recognized as such, but is considered mere friendship (255e). Despite the apparent mirroring, the desire of the beloved remains only a reflected image [eidolon) of the lover's desire for him; 62 Socrates seems to suggest, in his praise of divine eros, that love is always for desire itself and not for the object of desire.63 In the process of his conversion, the beloved finds his unruly horse "swelling and confused," ready to grant any favors to the lover, though he is opposed by his partner and by the charioteer through shame and speech (256a). In contrast with the speechless passion of the dark horse of the beloved, moving him to embrace his lover, the dark horse of the lover, having suffered and grown wise, has apparently become articulate in demanding of the charioteer some enjoyment for his pains (25 5e). In the struggle which ensues, if the "better of mind" are victorious, "the lovers lead a blessed and harmonious life on earth, self-ruling and well-ordered, becoming finally light and winged" (256a). This enslavement of the evil forces in the soul so that the virtuous may be free represents the "greatest good possible from either human moderation or divine madness" (256b). The victory of the self-ruling lovers in one of the "three truly Olympic

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contests" (256b), must beadentical with the victory, inr one of his three periods on earth, which the philosopher is required to achieve according to the "law of destiny" (cf. 249a). But Socrates does not forget that his love-speech is addressed to Phaedrus, the beloved whose reflected desire he is attempting to arouse. He therefore expands the rewards of love to include the blessings which come to those who lead a life "more commonplace" and "without philosophy" (256b). For those souls ruled by the love of honor, the pair of horses cannot be fully disciplined, since, in the absence of control by the charioteer, the unsteady guardianship of the white horse may be lost in moments of "drinking or carelessness" (256c). Nevertheless, the strength of right habits and the infirequency of such moments of carelessness allow these lovers to "pass through life as friends, though not such friends as the others," maintaining their pledges of love and departing at last with their wings beginning to grow (256d). In confirming the blessings of divine madness, Socrates again introduces a cosmic law: "Those who have begun the upward journey can never again pass into darkness and the journey beneath the earth" (256d). If Socrates has indeed provided the principles for the interpretation of muthos in his opening discussion (cf. 230a), the journey beneath the earth, which would seem to represent the punishment of embodiment in a subhuman condition (cf. 249b), must in fact describe the victory of the bestial within the human soul. The nourishment of the wings of the soul by the feast of the beings as the necessary requirement for the human condition, is dependent upon the experience of eros, for the vision of the beautiful one awakens the memory of the lover, which arouses the growth of the wings of his soul. The destruction of the wings of the soul, hence the cessation of the upward journey, is the punishment for not loving, hence the condition for banishment from the upper region, which is itself the punishment for not seeing. The "law of destiny" governing the interaction of lover and beloved is inseparable from, though not identical with, that governed by the memory of the plair^truth. In the attempt to exhibit the comprehensiveness lacking in the previous speeches, Socrates' recantation must subsume, under its praise for the madness of the true lover, the ground for its rejection of the nonlover. The private familiarity (oikeiotes) of the nonlover, mixed with "mortal moderation," illustrated in the first two speeches by their appeal to the interests of the beloved, is now revealed as a matter of economics, "mortal and thrifty" (256e). The slavish ness of that moderation which the many praise as virtue, Socrates identifies as the cause of "nine thousand years of wandering on earth and being mindless at last beneath the earth" (257a). The journey beneath the earth, which represents the victory of the subhuman, is thus identified as the fate of the nonlover praised in the previous speeches. Just as banishment from the truth and the corresponding absence of love are presented as both causing the human fall and identical with the punishment itself, so the narrowness of mortal prudence is not simply the

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cause of some subsequent punishment, but the very nature of that punishment as experienced in human life. Although Socrates began his speech with an address to the beautiful youth whom he wished to deter from accepting a nonlover over a lover, he concludes with an address to Eros (257a). The tension between the beautiful beloved and eros, understood as desire for the beautiful, Socrates attempts to resolve by making eros itself beautiful, that is, revealing its "divinity." But the success of Socrates' attempt to establish eros as a worthy beloved depends upon the success of his effort to lead the beloved Phaedrus toward becoming a lover. A speech attempting to arouse desire in the nonlover must be the persuasive speech of a lover, whose own self-esteem causes him to lead the beloved in his own image. That Socrates is indeed such a lover is confirmed by his request that he be, "even more than now, honored by the beautiful," and thus gain the favor of Phaedrus, now torn in two directions (257a~b). Socrates accepted Phaedrus's proposal of a competition by challenging Lysias, not simply as an individual, but as a representative of the use of writing for the practice of deception in the pursuit of self-interest; in the course of this competition, Socrates attempts by persuasion to gain the following of Phaedrus, not simply toward himself as an individual, but toward "love with philosophic speeches" (257b). Socrates can fulfill his rhetorical purpose of persuading Phaedrus only insofar as he fulfills his philosophic purpose of relating the truth about eros. In his mythic hymn to Eros, Socrates establishes the ground for the interdependence of knowledge of being and knowledge of soul which he demands as the necessary condition for the true art of speaking or writing (cf. 277b-c). But while the blessing of love lies in its power as a reminder of the vision of the whole, the pursuit of a particular individual nevertheless condemns the lover to a fragmented perspective on the whole that he seeks. The sweet speech of the divine lover, which washes away the bitter taste of the speech of the nonlover, cannot uncover the tension within the condition Socrates lays down for the true art of speaking.

V

THE ART O F SPEAKING AfrD T H E PRINCIPLES OF DIALECTICS

Now I myself am a lover, Phaedrus, of the activities of dividing and bringing together, in order to speak and to think; and i f l think there is another who is able to see the many by nature collected into one, 1 follow in his footsteps as if he were a god. And whether I name rightly or wrongly those able to accomplish this, god knows, but I have called them until now dialecticians. (266b)

If the unifying theme of the dialogue is the Platonic defense of an art of writing, expressed through the voice of Socrates, the drama must present a Socrates alienated from himself, who would defend in speech that which his lifelong activity condemns in deed. But the Platonic defense of the art of writing, which is in fact expressed through the Socratic condemnation of its dangers, must itself be based upon the principles Socrates lays down as the necessary foundation for adequate speaking or writing. The question of beautiful writing, which immediately follows the delivery of the speeches on eros, is therefore interrupted by a digression which reveals Plato's alliance with Socrates against the universal assumption of the rhetoricians, who maintain the independence of an art of persuasion based on knowledge of the opinion of the many. This interruption of the question of writing for the sake of the discussion on speaking is accomplished through Socrates' myth about the cicadas chirping over their heads in the midday sun; the story of these servants of the Muses Socrates interprets as a warning to himself and Phaedrus of the need to continue dialogue in the struggle against the soporific singing which distracts them. The conflict presented in the myth, between slavery to the seductiveness of such singing and the freedom of critical detachment from its charms, is reflected in the digression it initiates, in which Socrates puts on trial a personified art of speaking, who claims to be a necessary supplement to knowledge of the truth for the purpose of persuasion. The material for an investigation of this art of speaking is by some chance or fate, as Socrates remarks, provided by the speeches on eros. The examination of Lysias's speech leads to a principle dividing those terms with a determinate reference as the ground for agreement in discussion, from those with disputed meaning as the ground for the rhetorical power of decep-

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tion. On the basis of this principle, which points to the unacknowledged ambiguity of eras, Lysias's speech is criticized for the apparent absence of a determinate definition to begin with and for its consequent lack of logical order. The examination of Socrates' speeches, in contrast, leads to the demand that "all speech" be constructed like a living animal, having its parts in proper relation to the whole. On the basis of this principle, which illuminates the articulation of eros as one whole divided into its divine and human parts, Socrates' two speeches can be regarded as one; in that light, his playful speeches can display their serious value as a demonstration of the ideas of collection and division. Through the critical examination of the speeches on eros with regard to the structure of the whole and its parts, Socrates acknowledges the principles of dialectics to be the true object of his eros. Having established these principles of dialectics as the necessary foundation for all art, Socrates can criticize the refinements presented in contemporary books on rhetoric as mere preliminaries to any true art of speaking. In his final struggle against the rhetoricians' claim to teach an art based on knowledge of the likely, Socrates confirms the dependence of knowledge of likenesses on knowledge of the truth, even for the purpose of persuasion. In opposition to the rhetoricians' slavishness to human opinion, Socrates displays his own commitment to a superhuman project: insofar as knowledge of its subject matter with regard to the whole and its parts is the condition for any art, such knowledge of soul is the necessary, even if unattainable, condition for an art of persuasion.

I N THE PRAYER WHICH CONCLUDES HIS "MYTHIC HYMN" TO E R O S , SOCRATES RE-

calls the speech of Lysias, the occasion for his own delivery of the speech of a nonlover and hence for his necessary recantation. In response to this prayer, Phaedrus questions Lysias's willingness to write another speech in competition with Socrates, and thus innocently compels a return to the central problem of the dialogue: "What, then, is the manner of writing beautifully or not? Must we not, Phaedrus, question Lysias about this and the others, whoever has written or will write anything, whether political document or private, in meter as a poet or in prose as a private man?" (258d). Having identified the central subject of their investigation, however, Socrates suddenly interrupts himself with a myth about the cicadas chirping over their heads; as a result of this digression, the question of the nature of writing itself only reappears at the end of an examination of the

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problem of good or bacTspeaking and writing in general (259e). 1 The perplexity raised by the order of this critical discussion in fact reveals the necessary path for the fulfillment of the philosophic purpose of the dialogue as a whole: the Platonic alliance with Socrates in defense of dialectics against the claims of the rhetoricians, must be presented as the primary condition for the Platonic opposition to Socrates in defense of the art of writing. The first level of the Platonic defense is introduced by Phaedrus, whose very nature points to the ambiguous power of the written word. Phaedrus is fearful that Lysias will refrain from writing out of love of honor, provoked by the reproaches of the politicians who disdainfully call him a logographos (257c). Despite his own enthusiasm for written speeches, Phaedrus readily believes that shame is a powerful source of restraint from writing, for "the greatest and most important men in cities are ashamed to write and to leave writings behind them through fear of being called sophists by posterity" (257d). The common suspicion against the sophists' profession of wisdom—that it is a concealed love of honor— is appropriately linked with the suspicion against the activity of writing,2 for the necessarily public character of the written word indicates its possible grounding in the desire for honor. 3 If Phaedrus's mere concern for opinion motivates his present hesitation about Lysias's continued competition, it nevertheless foreshadows the Socratic condemnation of writing based on its potentially sophistic nature, the illusory appearance of wisdom without its reality (cf. 275a). 4 Socrates first takes up the discussion on the level which Phaedrus introduces, arguing that the same love of honor which might restrain Lysias actually moves the proudest of the politicians to leave writings behind them, since they seek immortality through the propagation of written law (257e). 5 If the paradigm of writing is the written law, it is because the law is the fitting model for the authoritative and immutable written word which Socrates condemns.6 Socrates' image for the legislator in the assembly is the poet in the theater, on the basis of their desire for fame and their appeal to the opinion of the many.7 By identifying the work of the law-writer and the poet as models for the product of writing, Socrates discloses the danger of the written word as a potential obstacle to the activity of dialectics, which requires the subjection of all established opinion to examination. The lawmaker's desire for immortality as "writer in the city" serves as the ground for Phaedrus's agreement with Socrates that writing speeches is not in itself necessarily shameful; this agreement, based on the evidence of human opinion, must, however, be transformed into the recognition that the shame of writing consists in speaking or writing shamefully or badly (258d). While Phaedrus is convinced of a beneficial opinion whose implications remain unknown to him, Socrates necessarily subjects their agreement to question: "What then is the method of writing beautifully or not?" (258d). The answer to this question is to be wrenched not merely from Socrates and Phaedrus together, but from Lysias and any other past or future writer. Phaedrus responds to this project with great enthusiasm: "You ask if we should? What else should one live for, so to speak,

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but for such pleasures? Certainly not for those which can only be perceived with previous pain, as with almost all pleasures of the body, which are therefore justly called slavish" (258e). It is immediately after arousing Phaedrus's eagerness for an investigation into the shamefulness of writing that Socrates suddenly interrupts the discussion with a tale about the Muses. If the Platonic dialogue were not a drama but a treatise, Socrates would presumably follow his crucial question with a discussion of the requirements for beautiful writing. But Phaedrus's response apparently induces Socrates to introduce his digression of the myth, and indeed the whole discussion on the art of speaking, Socrates seems compelled to introduce his digression precisely because Phaedrus so eagerly betrays his understanding of speech as the highest pleasure in life, surpassing, simply by its freedom from pain, the pleasures of the body. Socrates must transform Phaedrus's unqualified appreciation of speech in and of itself—an appreciation apparently unaltered by the beautiful speech just delivered—before they can pursue the discussion of writing. Socrates' recognition of this necessary transformation is indicated by his immediate response to Phaedrus: "We have leisure, so it seems" (258e), apparently contradicting his original contention that their encounter is "a matter more important than business" (cf. 227b). 8 The leisure required for the digression which interrupts the problem of writing is in fact seriously and urgently demanded by Phaedrus's identification of speech as mere leisure entertainment. The myth with which Socrates introduces his digression is, appropriately, a story about slavery and freedom. Socrates warns Phaedrus that they must not be lured by the siren voices of the cicadas chirping above their heads, like slaves slumbering at noon, 9 but must sail past these sirens, conversing (dialegomenous) like free men (259a). The story Socrates relates describes the slavery of these sirens themselves as the price paid for their love of the pleasure of song. Precisely because it paints such an accurate portrait of Phaedrus's nature, Socrates declares it unfitting for Phaedrus, lover of the Muses, to be unaware of the story (259b). The content of the first myth in the dialogue, introducing the written speech of Lysias, is a story of being carried away by love, interpreted by the sophoi as a story about death. Socrates now offers his own myth, where love is the cause of death. At the birth of the Muses, those men who were overwhelmed with the love of song, forgetting food and drink, sang and sang until they died; but the reward for that overwhelming love is the transformation of these men into the genos of the cicadas, who sing continuously, without food and drink, until they die. At their death, the cicadas become messengers, able to obtain the favors of the Muses for their respective lovers. Socrates insists, however, that these intermediaries bestow their gift only on those who sail past their seductive charms (259a); 10 he therefore concludes his tale with praise for Urania and Calliope, those Muses concerned

with "heaven" and with"logos divine and human" (259d). n The favor Socrates ironically seeks through the intermediaries who chirp above them is the strength to resist their charms; that favor is necessarily sought from the particular Muses worshipped by those who pass their lives in philosophy (cf. 259d), for only these

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Muses encourage resistance to the dangerous seduction practiced by their followers. The eldest Muses must be identical with those gods in whose footsteps Socrates follows, those he has always called "dialecticians" (cf. 266b); only for these Muses is Socrates' love so strong that he will accept death in preference to a life not devoted to their service.12 The myth of the servants of the Muses is recited, as Socrates remarks, exactly at noon (259a), midway between Phaedrus's sunrise entertainment with the feast of Lysias's speech and his sunset communion with Socrates in a prayer for inner beauty.13 This story, which Socrates interprets as an admonition to continue conversing in the struggle against the soporific seduction of song, forms the bond between the speeches on love and their critical examination. The myth of the cicadas interrupts the investigation of writing that follows the love speeches and stimulates a discussion on the art of speaking, which establishes the principles of dialectics as the necessary foundation for any art of speaking or writing. The structure of the dialogue thus reflects the content of Socrates' central myth, for the madness of being carried away is, as a result of the tale of the cicadas, averted through the practice of dialectics.14 The cicada tale constitutes the central myth between the first, a story of desire and death which Socrates interprets in light of the problem of self-knowledge, and the last, a story about the discovery of the art of writing; while it is linked with the opening myth, in relating a tale about the convergence of love and death, it is linked with the concluding myth in affirming the "deathlessness of the genos" expressed through their "unceasing production of song" (259c). The story of the lovers of the Muses thus points to the function of writing as a bond in the conflict between eros and death. The immortal singing, which charms its audience into slavery, luring them from the duty of dialectics, must represent, then, the "things written in books" that threaten the same seduction (cf. 227d). The opposition between dialegesthai and deathless song is thus the proper prelude for the opposition finally established between dialectics and the written word that seduces its readers away from their own thinking through its pretense of "clarity and firmness" (cf 275c). In the immediate sequel to the myth, Socrates lays down the criterion for what is well or beautifully spoken: "The mind of the speaker must know the truth about each of the beings of which he is to speak" (259e). But Socrates is immediately challenged by the essential position of the opponent, enthusiastically reported by Phaedrus: "About that I have heard, dear Socrates, that for one who is to be a rhetorician, it is not necessary to understand what is truly just, but what would seem so to the many who are to judge, not what is truly good or beautiful, but what will seem so; for it is from these that persuasion comes, and not from the truth" (260a). Socrates' ironic response is an implicit rejection of the position: he insists that this "word of the wise" cannot be accepted on the basis of opinion but must be examined in light of its possible truth (260a). Socrates begins this examination by obtaining Phaedrus's agreement on the absurdity of praising the

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ass under the name of the horse; without acknowledging either the likeness which might allow for such confusion or the intention which might motivate it, Phaedrus affirms that such a replacement would be "most laughable" (260c). But Socrates belittles this laughable deception by comparing it with the danger of a clever enemy, like the rhetorician ignorant of good and evil, who attempts, on the basis of studying the opinions of the many, to praise evil under the name of good (260c). 15 Phaedrus, who seems to have forgotten Lysias's praise for selfconcern under the name of nonlove, readily agrees to the poor fruit such rhetoric would harvest from the seed it had sown (260d). Fearing, however, the harshness of their reproach to the art of speaking, Socrates feels compelled to bring her to life so that she might speak in her own defense.16 In her brief apologia the art of speaking in fact justifies Socrates' own customary activity; while not compelling anyone to learn to speak without knowing the truth, she claims only that, without her power, knowledge of the truth does not itself constitute an art of persuasion (260d). 17 In order to judge this claim, the art of speaking must go on trial before the arguments of the "Lawman" for whom Socrates speaks; these "noble creatures" are to persuade Phaedrus, "father of beautiful children," that a real art of speaking that does not grasp the truth does not and never will exist (261a). Socrates thus replaces his former prayer to Eros, requesting aid for his guidance of Phaedrus (257b), with a plea to the Laconian arguments for aid in refuting the claim of an art of speaking based on mere opinion. The accusation begins with a definition of rhetoric as "an art which leads souls through words, not only in law courts and other public assemblies, but in private as well" (261a). 18 With no further qualification, the tekhne of leading souls (psuchagogia)19 through logoi is a definition of rhetoric which does not preclude Socrates' initial stipulation—that the mind of the speaker know the truth about that of which he speaks (259e)—any less than Phaedrus's—that the speaker must know what will seem true to his listeners (260a). The power of psuchagogia constitutes the "whole of rhetoric," transcending distinctions between small and great, serious and trifling issues (261b). But Phaedrus, both witness and jury in this trial, betrays his own lack of awareness for, having just recited Lysias's persuasive love speech, he responds to Socrates' generalization by denying that he has ever heard of any private use of the art of rhetoric. As a model of the private art of contention, Socrates chooses the work of Zeno, whose written speeches make the same things appear like and unlike, one and many, at rest and in motion, 20 thus representing the private equivalent to contention about the just and unjust carried on in the law court, or contention about good and evil carried on in the public assembly. The contentious writing of the "Eleatic Palamedes" Socrates ironically compares to the "arts of speaking" written by Nestor and Odysseus at their leisure during the Trojan Warl 21 Every example for the art of contention Socrates playfully identifies as a product of writing; insofar as the act of writing renders public the most private matters, Socrates defends his intended

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unification of public and private rhetoric while, a f the same time, illuminating the truth behind Phaedrus's doubts about the possibility of a completely private art of rhetoric. On the basis of the likeness between the advocate in a lawsuit, the speaker in a public assembly, and the Eleatic Palamedes, Socrates describes the art of contention, which constitutes the whole of rhetoric, as the ability to "produce a likeness between all things capable of being alike (in some respect), and bring to light the likenesses produced and concealed by others" (261e). Contrary to his apparent intention, Socrates in fact indicates that the art of contention, based on the discovery of likenesses, could not be wholly independent of the activities of collection and division, which he will soon introduce as the principles of all thought and speech (265d-e). Even if this ability to discover likenesses were used simply as a means toward the end of deception, Socrates affirms, it could fulfill the condition of an art only insofar as it is free from self-deception, for "the art of leading his hearers to pass from one thing to its opposite by small degrees through likenesses, but of escaping that himself, cannot be possessed by one who is ignorant of each of the beings" (262b). Knowledge of the nature of each being is constituted by knowledge of its likeness or unlikeness with "the others," the other beings, that is, as well as the images in which they are reflected; complete knowledge of the whole represents the necessary condition for an art of contention. The interrelated structure of likenesses among the beings as parts of an organized whole, reflected through the various individual perspectives on that whole, is none other than the superuranian feast beheld by the various gods with their troops of human followers. Yet, for the human soul, the pursuit of a particular god is only the necessary and not the sufficient condition for the vision of the ideas: the necessary if not sufficient condition for knowledge of the structure of being must be knowledge of soul, with self-knowledge as its necessary basis. Knowledge of likenesses, introduced as a requirement for the true art of speaking, begins to look like a description of Socratic erotics. In demonstrating that the ground of the art of speaking is the conjunction of knowledge of being with knowledge of soul, Socrates defends the art of speaking as a necessary supplement to knowledge of the truth, while at the same time defending knowledge of the truth as the necessary condition for any art of speaking. But whether this desirable art is in fact possible, Socrates seems to put into question, for without complete knowledge of the whole, deception would seem inescapable, while the very nature of human memory presupposes the partial absence of such complete knowledge. In order to investigate the possibility of a true art of speaking, Socrates proposes as an appropriate model the speeches just delivered; Phaedrus, who finds their critical discussion rather "naked," readily assents (262c). The perfect paradigm of the way in which, "knowing the truth, one would lead his listeners by playing in speeches," is provided by the "two speeches" (262d); Socrates seems to remain intentionally ambiguous in referring either to his own two speeches, or to the

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speech of Lysias and one of his speeches, or to the speech of Lysias and his own two speeches taken together as one. 22 Socrates attributes the paradigmatic status of the speeches to "some kind of chance, as it seems" (262d); he ironically replaces the responsibility of the Platonic art of writing with his praise for the inspiration of the "gods of the place" and the "prophets of the Muses." 23 When Phaedrus requests further clarification in their examination of the speeches, Socrates commands him to read the beginning of the speech by Lysias (262d). But Socrates suddenly interrupts this reading just before Phaedrus recites Lysias's concealed definition of eros; in the course of this interruption, Socrates establishes a principle of rhetoric which Phaedrus will be compelled to apply to the speech of Lysias when he returns to it. The repetition of the opening lines of Lysias's speech thus forms a frame for the statement of a fundamental principle of rhetoric: "Then he who is to develop the art of rhetoric must first make a methodical division, grasping the character of each form [eidos], between those in which the multitude is necessarily led astray and those in which they are not" (263b). The art of rhetoric, for obvious reasons, has less power to deceive with regard to those terms on which we are—or think we are—"in harmony," such as iron or silver, than with regard to those on which "we stand apart from others and from ourselves," such as justice or goodness (263a-b). What Socrates identifies in his mythic hymn as the unmoving beings beyond the heavens, are now introduced as representatives of the class "in which we wander." Forgetfulness of the vision of the truth, reinforced by the apparent clarity of perceived images and acquired opinion, causes us to "wander" in our understanding. The ambiguity of the ideas, which results from our forgetfulness, thus constitutes a condition for the power of deception; but only an awareness of ambiguity, insofar as it sets in motion the process of thought, could serve as the necessary condition for the activity of recollection. The unwavering stability which Socrates now assigns to those terms on which we assume ourselves to be in agreement, is finally attributed to the nondialectic written word, which remains "external to the soul of the learner" (cf. 27 5d). Only when the potential ambiguity of the product of writing is acknowledged, thus obliterating trust in its clarity and firmness, does it have the power to set in motion the internal process of thought (cf. 277d). The very ambiguity which allows for the rhetorical power of deception thus provides the power of the Platonic dialogue to speak and remain silent when fitting, to defend itself against the inherent dangers of the authoritative written word.24 Applying Socrates' principle of division, Phaedrus assigns eros to the class of ambiguous terms, for eros allows itself to be described as "harmful to the beloved and the lover" and again as "the greatest of goods" (263c). Phaedrus's understanding of the ambiguity of eros must rest on some recognition of the two speeches as one whole; while Socrates praises Phaedrus for this recognition, he directs his attention to each speech as an isolated whole, in order to investigate the artfulness with which it treats the ambiguity of its subject. The artfulness of a speech, Socrates simply asserts, depends upon the immediate establishment of a defini-

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tion; he therefore raises the question of whether Lysias "compelled us to suppose eros to be some one of the beings which he chose and kept in mind while composing the rest of the logos" (263d-e). As a proper model, Socrates commends the artfulness of his, own speech; with this singular allusion, Socrates seems to refer to his "false and impious" speech, which does indeed begin with an explicit definition of eros (257d—238a), as opposed to his recantation, which only works its way toward the circular definition of eros as "eros of the beautiful" (249e). 25 By calling to mind this contrast between his two speeches, Socrates casts doubt on the validity of the rhetorical principle that simply demands the stipulation of some definition or other as the proper starting point for any inquiry. Having established the criterion for an artful speech, Socrates commands Phaedrus to reread Lysias's beginning, allowing him to continue, this time, just until he has reached the implicit definition of eros: "For lovers repent of the kindnesses they have done when their desire ceases" (264a). Phaedrus, who reads just as he listens, takes no advantage of the repeatability of the product of writing for a reconsideration of the rhetorical motives behind Lysias's implicit definition; persuaded by Socrates of the absence of a definition, Phaedrus acquiesces in Socrates' condemnation of the speech as an artless product of writing. This condemnation of Lysias's speech, understood as the paradigm of the product of writing, takes place through the repetition of its opening lines, which forms a frame around Socrates' discussion of rhetoric and the power of deception; the digression which establishes the division between the ambiguous and the clear on the basis of the opinion of the many stands in the same relation to Lysias's speech as the digression establishing the principles of "collection and division" stands in relation to the general analysis of writing. Just as he returns to the analysis of writing only after the digression on speaking (cf. 274b), Socrates returns to the examination of the speech by Lysias only after his digression on the power of deception. Lysias is criticized for "attempting to swim up the speech from its end," then for "throwing out the remainder in a flood" (254a-b). When Socrates asks Phaedrus if he sees some "speech-writing necessity" for the apparently random arrangement of Lysias's speech (264b), he implicitly criticizes the absence of any deductive taxis in its argument, while suggesting, at the same time, that Lysias may have had some rhetorical purpose for either avoiding or concealing such taxis. Phaedrus, who does not understand the difference between the logographic necessity of rhetoric and that of dialectics, believes Socrates flatters him in suggesting such accurate discernment; he seems to have already forgotten the immediately preceding discussion of ambiguity, for it is precisely the ambiguity of eros, concealed by Lysias's rhetorical skill, which gives his speech its power to deceive. The content of Lysias's speech, which conceals the whole of eros in order to condemn one part, is mirrored in its form, which conceals its own principle of arrangement in order to appear exhaustive. In order to evaluate the apparent absence of logical order in the speech by Lysias, Socrates introduces a principle of logographic necessity by which to judge

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"all speech" or "every speech" (pas logos, 264c); the ambiguity of pas logos reflects the ambiguity of pasa psuche with which Socrates began his account of the immortality of soul as self-moving motion (cf. 245c). Appropriate to this analogy, Socrates' principle demands that all speech/every speech be put together "like a living animal, having a body of its own, not headless nor footless, but having a middle and limbs, composed [gegrammena) in fitting relation to each other and to the whole" (264c). As a standard by which to examine the structure of the whole and parts of his inspired speeches on eros, in contrast with the apparently random organization of Lysias's speech, Socrates establishes the principle of logographic necessity demanding that "all speech" be constructed with the organic unity of a living being. 26 But this principle Socrates presents without any grounds for its necessity, and with no clarification of the basis for knowledge of the one whole and its many parts. The justification for this principle of artful speech has been supplied, paradoxically, only through Socrates' mythic hymn praising the divine madness of eros, with its imagistic account of the journey of the soul to the vision of the beings. In defending his standard for the artful construction of logos against the challenge of the rhetoricians, the Platonic Socrates ironically invokes his divine inspiration, while suppressing any acknowledgment of the art which is in fact responsible for the "speech-writing necessity" displayed in the construction of his allegedly inspired speeches. In refusing to acknowledge the potential value of the art of writing for the artful construction of organically unified speech, Socrates takes the speech of Lysias as the paradigm of the product of writing, while imitating the error of Lysias in condemning one part as if it were a whole. In contrast with the principle that all speech must be organized like a living being, Socrates likens the indifferent circularity of Lysias's dead, written speech to the circular epitaph on the tombstone of Midas the Phyrgian, in which any line can come first or last (264e). Unlike the birth, growth, and decay of a living animal generated by desire, the frozen voice of the bronze maiden, with its eternal repeatability, serves as a fitting image for the lifeless declaration of the nonlover; the inorganic form of Lysias's speech mirrors the condemnation of eros in its content. The juxtaposition of Lysias's inanimate, written speech with Socrates' demand for logos constructed like a living animal thus indicates the tension between the erotic spontaneity of living speech and the deathlike fixity of the product of writing. Yet Socrates presents his requirement that all speech be constructed like a living animal as a principle of writing (gegrammena) (264c); the irony of applying to the product of writing the demand for ensouled logos is in fact suggested by language itself, since the word for a living animal (zoon) is also used to denote any figure or image, as, for example, in a painting. The resolution of the tension between the natural spontaneity of living speech and the rigid fabrication of the product of writing seems to depend upon the possibility of a product of writing constructed by art with the taxis of an organic whole, yet able to function like an ensouled being. Such a product of writing is-in fact represented by the dialogue itself, for it is precisely by demanding recognition of its hidden structure as an

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organic whole, henco»calling into being the activity of interpretation as its own fulfillment, that the Platonic zoographia displays its potential for coming to life. In order to illustrate the unity of logos as living animal, Socrates chooses as appropriate models his own speeches on eros; only on the basis of this principle is Socrates able to bring together the two speeches as one "body," dividing that whole into its left-handed and right-handed counterparts. Since, as Socrates reminds Phaedrus, the speeches were delivered "madly," it is only their present investigation which can uncover the unity of love as madness, based on the discernment of its two eide, that of "human diseases" and that of "divine release from the usual laws" (265a). Socrates looks back with the calmness of human reason on his playful image-making, produced while a slave to the "despot Eros" (265c): 27 "Somehow making a likeness of the erotic pathos, perhaps touching some truth, perhaps being led away elsewhere, having mixed a not completely unpersuasive speech, we playfully composed a measured and euphonic hymn to Eros, despot over myself and you, Phaedrus, and guardian of beautiful boys" (265b-c). Removed from the tyranny of eros, Socrates can now see his two speeches as one paidia,28 passing from blame to praise (265c). But the serious value of that paidia lies, not in the pretense of each speech as an erotic address, but in their joint manifestation of two inseparable forms {duoin eidoin), "whose power, if art could grasp it, would not be ungratifying'* (265d). The missing ground for the rules of rhetoric previously discussed is now indicated by these two principles; "seeing and bringing together the scattered many into one idea, so as to make clear by definition each about which one wishes to teach" (265d) and "being able to cut by forms {eide) along the natural joints, not trying to break off any part, in the manner of a bad carver" (265e). Socrates identifies, as the foundation of all speaking and thinking (265b), what he declared in his mythic hymn to be the essential requirement for the human soul—the recollection of the vision of the beings beheld in the journey with a god, reflected in human life as the ability to "grasp together by eidos, proceeding from the many perceptibles to a unity, which is gathered together through reasoning (logismo)" (249b-c). The illustration of these principles which would be gratifying for all tekhne—if it were capable of grasping them—is to be found in the speeches on eros: collection of the scattered many into one idea is exemplified by the way in which, just now, Eros was defined, whether well or badly, so that the speech gained clarity and consistency, while the principle of division is exemplified by the way in which, just now, the dyad of speeches assumed one eidos in common, taking madness to be naturally one eidos in us, then cutting its left-handed from its right-handed part, so that one speech could justly revile human eros while the other could praise divine eros (265d-e). In examining his two speeches on eros which have now become one dyad, Socrates claims to have discovered a dyad of principles for all reasoning; but in his separate accounts of the principle of collection and division Socrates reveals each to be in itself a dyad which necessarily involves its own collection of a whole and division of parts, for collection of

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one idea must be accomplished by "seeing together" (sunoronfa) the scattered many while division by eide must be accomplished by first assuming one common eidos. While Socrates claims simply to articulate a dyad of complementary principles, he in fact points to their unequal status. The principle of collection into one idea through definition is distinguished by its motivation of teaching from the principle of division by eide according to natural articulations; the dual purposes of communication and discrimination constitute the ground of separation between the dual principles of all reasoning. In exemplifying the principle of collection Socrates speaks of the consistency of his one speech based on a single definition; in exemplifying the principle of division he speaks of his dual speeches, each representing one part of a common eidos. The tension between the two principles is reflected in Socrates' implication of the tension between the determination of the definition of Eros—whether accomplished well or badly— and the determination of the form of madness as a whole of parts. The distinct status of the two principles has in fact been indicated by the immediately preceding examination of the love-speeches from which Socrates extracted without defense a set of rules for the rhetorical art. The principle of collection is adumbrated in the demand for determination of that class of ambiguous terms in which rhetoric shows its power of deception, which led to the requirement for establishing a definition at the beginning of any logos as the basis for further deductions (263b-d); the principle of division, on the other hand, is adumbrated in the demand for the construction of all logos displaying the organic unity of a living animal with parts in proper relation to the whole (264c). While the first rule provided the standard for evaluating the superiority of Socrates' first speech over the speech of Lysias, the second rule provided the standard for understanding the organic unity of Socrates' two speeches as parts of one whole; the demand for a definition at the beginning of every logos was first introduced as the necessary starting point of the speech Socrates delivered in the name of the nonlover (237c-d), while the demand for collection of one common class as a basis for further division was introduced as the starting point of the speech Socrates delivered in praise of divine eros (cf. 244a-245c). Socrates claims to illustrate the principles of collection and division through his speeches on eros, but he emphatically announces that the definition of love as a whole and the division of madness into parts has been achieved "just now." The exemplification in the love-speeches of the principles of all reasoning is accomplished, not by the speeches as originally presented, but only by the present critical examination which uncovers at the same time the collected whole and divided parts of the two love-speeches as one. 2 9 Recognition of whole and part, as foundation of speech and thought, seems to be necessarily obscured by the madness of love for another individual, which may nevertheless constitute the necessary human path toward such recognition. Socrates indicates the only possible resolution of that tension by identifying the truth of his divine madness to be eros of the principles of collection and division. The only beloved, whoever

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he may be, whom Sdfcrates is willing to follow aslhough he were a god, is one who is able by nature to gain insight into the one whole and its articulated parts; in giving the name 'dialectician' to one who pursues this activity, only god knows whether Socrates speaks rightly or wrongly (266b). 30 The ability to make the same thing appear good and evil, originally attributed to the power of rhetoric (cf. 261c-e), is now shown to result from the suppression of that whole which comprehends its good and evil parts, each of which may be deceptively presented as a whole in itself. Socrates thus accounts for his original insistence on the impossibility of any speech being wholly false, insofar as the falseness of a speech necessarily lies in its incompleteness (cf. 23 5e). The presentation of Socrates' speeches as self-contained wholes, which conceals the true whole of which they are only parts, is based on their apparent intention as persuasive addresses to a particular beloved. The structure of the whole and its parts that allows Socrates' two speeches to emerge as one living being, hence to illustrate the principles of dialectics, requires the ability to look back on them, subsequent to their delivery, as repeatable entities; comprehension of the speeches as an articulated whole seems to depend upon overcoming their illusory appearance as independent, spontaneous deliveries, through recognition of that product of writing in which these inspired speeches are imitated. But the manifestation of the principles,.of dialectics in his speeches on eros Socrates attributes to chance or fate (cf. 262d, 265d), maintaining the illusion of the absence of the Platonic art which in fact accounts for the paradigmatic status of the speeches; he thus reminds us of the distance between the conversation portrayed as an actual event and the work of artful imitation in which it is represented. In the absence of mediation by the daimonion, which inspires Socrates to recognize the incompleteness of a part parading as a whole, the transformation of eros to philosophic eros seems to require the distance of objectivity, rendered possible by the art of writing. Without divine inspiration, the necessary guidance for recognition of the whole to be collected and the parts to be divided seems to depend upon a "drug" for human memory. This potential value of the art of writing Plato affirms through the written imitation of Socrates, who rejects the activity of writing because of its alienation from dialectics, while attributing to divine inspiration the dialectic analysis of eros accomplished by the Platonic art of writing. With the identification of the activity of collection and division as the pursuit of those belonging to the class of "dialecticians," Socrates excludes from that class Phaedrus, Lysias, Thrasymachus, and the others—-the teachers of an art of speaking for "those willing to pay them as kings" (266c). Phaedrus is willing to grant dialectics its own territory, but only by maintaining the independence of an art of rhetoric, exhibited by "the things written in books on the art of speaking" (266d). Thanks to Phaedrus's "beautiful reminder," Socrates proceeds to recite a quick summary of the "refinements of the art" taught by all the leading rhetoricians of the day (266e-267d). With an almost bitter playfulness, Socrates displays his knowledge of rhetorical

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principles of organization, specifying the order of introduction, narrative and testimony, proofs, probabilities, confirmation, and refutation. He offers ironic praise of the worthy Theodorus (who explained refutation and further refutation in accusation and defense), of the illustrious Parian, Evenus (who invented covert allusion and indirect praise and censure), of Gorgias and Tisias (who discovered the superiority of likelihood to truth), of the most clever Prodicus (who found the mean between long and short speech to be "the moderate"), of Hippias (who would agree with him), of Prodicus (with his brilliant figures of speech), of the names presented by Licymnius, of the principles of correct diction invented by Protagoras, and of the precepts of Thrasymachus the mighty Ghalcedonian, able to arouse in his audience gentle pity and fierce anger on appropriate occasions; finally, most fittingly, Socrates concludes by praising their universal agreement on the conclusion of speeches, which some call recapitulation while others invent other names for it. Despite the great force of these refinements that Phaedrus finds so impressive, at least in public assemblies, Socrates insists on examining the "gaps in their warp" (268a). To exhibit the essential difference between the principles of dialectics, which Socrates identifies as the necessary foundation of all art, and the refinements presented in books on rhetoric, Socrates chooses three examples of art— medicine, tragedy, and music—which seem, perhaps particularly in their conjunction, to provide fitting models for illuminating the character of the art of speaking. To the knowledge of causes and the sense of judgment necessary for the medical art of Eryximachus and Acumen us, Socrates compares empirical acquaintance with mere techniques of treatment (268b). To the masterworks of tragedy produced by Sophocles and Euripides, he compares the ability to make long or short, pitiful or threatening speeches (263c). To knowledge of the principles of harmony, Socrates compares the ability to play the highest or lowest notes of the scale (268e). The indignant physician would, according to Phaedrus, accuse the mere technician of madness, if he claimed to practice an art, 31 while the disdainful tragedian would laugh at his ridiculously unworthy competitor. But the artful musician—for whom Socrates speaks—is himself mousikos and would never harshly reproach the self-deceived claimant to an art; practicing persuasion in the service of instruction, the true musician would gently explain that the techniques employed in the artful pursuit of appropriate ends cannot themselves constitute the art, but only its preliminaries (268e). After reformulating, on this basis, Phaedrus's proposed responses for the artful physician and tragedian, Socrates replaces the artful musician with an imitation of the mousikos rhetorician, thus suggesting their identity. In the eyes of the "mellifluous Adrastus or Pericles," 32 the refinements of rhetoric, which Phaedrus so admires, must be recognized as mere preliminaries; the techniques of rhetoric, not grounded in knowledge of the proper ends of persuasion and unable to guarantee their own proper application, are merely instruments, deceptively parading'as an art, whereas the persuasive use of such techniques in the composition of a harmonious whole could only be

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accomplished by the tttie master of an art of rhetoric. Speaking in the voice of this artful rhetorician who imitates the speech of the artful musician, Socrates ironically reproaches himself and Phaedrus for their harshness against the pretenders to an art of rhetoric whose inability to define its nature is based on their ignorance of dialectics (269b). Submissive to this reproach, Phaedrus is eager to hear "how and from where someone would be able to procure the true art of rhetoric and persuasion" (269d). In order to fulfill the necessary conditions for the art of rhetoric, Socrates insists, one must add knowledge and practice to natural ability; he says nothing about the possibility of teaching. 33 Denying the claims of Lysias and Thrasymachus as teachers of the art, Socrates returns to Pericles as "the most perfect rhetorician to have come into being" (269e). 34 Pericles is assigned a unique position as the only nonmythical possessor of an art of speaking; but the source of his knowledge, as the necessary supplement to natural ability, is the encouragement toward "idle talk and meteorologizing about nature" which he gained from the teachings of Anaxagoras (270a). 35 With this ironic description of Periclean rhetoric and its theoretical foundations, Socrates seems to suggest that the fitting teacher of "the truly rhetorical and persuasive art" would have to exhibit the combination of an interest in the political power of persuasion with an interest in the study of nature. Socrates himself, who rejects both these aims and claims to possess only knowledge of his own ignorance,36 necessarily brings into question the teachability of this true art of persuasion. The implicit tension between the desirability and the possibility of the art of persuasion is disclosed through Socrates' analogy between rhetoric and the art of healing. The artfulness of medicine and rhetoric consists in their ability to analyze, in the one case, the nature of the body, in the other, of the soul. The analogy between medicine and rhetoric rests on a consideration of the parallel relation of the body with the soul, of health and strength provided by drugs and diet, with desired opinion and virtue provided by speeches and lawful practices (270b). 37 The validity of the analogy between medicine and rhetoric presupposes the independence of each as an autonomous art (hence the strict parallelism of body and soul) in the absence of a comprehensive whole; Socrates, therefore, conceals the inadequacy of his model by suppressing his recognition of the ambiguity in his demand for knowledge of "the whole" as the necessary condition for knowledge of the nature of the soul (270c). 38 In support of his own interests, Phaedrus tries to preserve the analogy between medicine and rhetoric, calling Hippocrates, who claims the same dependence on knowledge of the whole for knowledge of the body, as a witness (270c). 39 Unwilling to accept this witness without further examination, Socrates claims to speak for Hippocrates and the "true logos," affirming that the first requirement for artfully investigating the nature of anything whatsoever consists in knowledge of its simplicity or complexity. The demand for knowledge of the simplicity or complexity of any nature seems merely to repeat the principles of collection and division which Socrates first discovered, through the examination of his love-

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speeches, as the foundation of all speech and thought. But in addition to these fundamental principles demanding the collection of a whole and the division of its parts, the investigation of any nature whatsoever requires knowledge of its power of action and passion, and of its proper agents and patients. For if the nature under investigation is simple, its power of acting or of being acted on, and by what, must be determined, and if it has many forms (eide), each of these must be numbered, then treated as if it were a simple being whose actions and passions could be articulated. Socrates does not claim, however, that such an investigation could be accomplished for the complex being as a whole, and the whole may be more than the sum of its parts. The simple conjunction of the medical analysis of the nature of the body with the rhetorical analysis of the nature of the soul may not in itself constitute an analysis of the nature of man. The tension which implies the inadequacy of the analogy between medicine and rhetoric as parallel and independent arts is thus reflected in Socrates' deduction from that analogy of the principles for knowledge of any nature as a whole. 40 The recognition of whole and parts, presumably identical with the activity of collection and division which Socrates called "dialectics" is nonetheless confirmed by the "true logos" to be the criterion for the proper practice of any tekhne, for "any other method would be like the path of a blind man" (270e). The standard established for the proper practice of any tekhne remains, therefore, the basis for a reconsideration of the rhetoricians' claim to possess an art of speaking. The true art of speaking must be based upon knowledge of the nature of the soul, which, in turn, according to the "true logos," must be based upon knowledge of the nature of the whole; whether that "whole" refers to the whole man—body and soul—or to the whole of being, Socrates does not explicitly take up for consideration. On the basis of this ambiguity in the meaning of "the whole," Socrates conceals his transition from demanding an analysis of the nature of the beings about which one speaks to demanding an analysis of the nature of that to which one speaks (270e). The justification for this apparently arbitrary transition, however, lies in Socrates' address to those teachers who claim to possess a universal art of persuasion irrespective of the content involved.41 Since the goal of the rhetorician's art is to "produce persuasion in the soul" (271a), whoever seriously claims to teach a rhetorike tekhne will, in the first place, "write with complete precision and make soul visible, whether it is one and naturally homogeneous or, like body, multiform" (271a); secondly, he will defirfe itsfpctions and their objects as well as its passions and their agents; thirdly, he will arrange the classes {gene) of speeches and souls, teaching why certain souls are necessarily persuaded by certain speeches and others not (271a-b). If speeches represent the agents of action on the soul as well as the products of action by the soul, the final requirement for the adaptation of classes of speeches to classes of soul is necessarily derivative from the first requirements, which seem merely to apply to the subject of soul the principles Socrates just articulated as the requirements for investigation of any nature whatsoever (cf. 27 Id). But while

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the first account ofc the activities of collection^-and division defined the most general principles for artful speech and thought (265d-e), and the account of division by eide ascribed to Hippocrates and the "true logos" defined the principles for investigation of the nature of anything (270d), in examining the claims of the art of persuasion^ Socrates applies these principles to the analysis of soul and says nothing about division of the beings. Only if knowledge of soul were independent of knowledge of the beings could the rhetorike tekhne be an autonomous whole on the basis of which persuasion could, presumably, be pursued independently of instruction. That Thrasymachus is now taken up as a potential example of the true teacher of an art of rhetoric, shortly after his designation as the most powerful in evoking pity, arousing audiences to anger, and calming them (267c), suggests the tension between the effectiveness of an ability to persuade and the requirements which Socrates lays down for an art of persuasion. The very recognition that the ability to persuade particular souls by particular speeches may indeed be only a matter of judgment or natural talent and not a tekhne must itself constitute that knowledge of soul which the "contemporary writers on the art of speaking know very well" (271c); professing to teach a tekhne of persuasion, these magicians necessarily conceal their knowledge of its impossibility. The primary requirement for an art of speaking is an exposition of the nature of soul as simple or complex. In response to Phaedrus's original inquiry about the truth of a muthologema, Socrates had insisted on the urgency of the need to examine the simplicity or complexity of his own soul (cf. 230a). That priority, which Socrates recognized through knowledge of his own ignorance, is now identified as the universal condition for any art of speaking. But Socrates' own attempt to articulate the idea of soul only followed the "human and shorter" path of producing a likeness, while the accuracy he now demands from the artful rhetorician Socrates once considered a "wholly divine and long narration" (cf. 246a). 42 Although Socrates began his mythic hymn with the promise of an account of "the truth about the nature of soul divine and human" (245c), the structure and content of his speech are in fact determined precisely by the unresolved tension between the simplicity and complexity of soul. Nor is the demand for precise knowledge of the nature of soul satisfied by Socrates' critical examination of the inspired speeches as parts of "one body." Since the left-handed madness of human eros is distinguished from its divine counterpart by its compulsion toward "beauty of the body," and it is the body, as Socrates implies, that accounts for the complexity of the soul, the problem of the one whole which would comprehend the two separate speeches condemning human eros and praising divine eros is itself a reflection of the unresolved question of the simplicity or complexity of soul. Socrates' love-speeches and the

present critical discussion seem to mutually illuminate the doubtfulness of achieving precise knowledge of the structure of the soul's whole and its parts as the necessary condition for the true art of speaking. Socrates announces the standard which rhetoric must fulfill if it is to claim the

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title of an art to "whomever seriously teaches a rhetorical art," namely, "those now writing arts of speeches" (271b-c). The possession of a dialectic knowledge of the structure of the soul's whole and its parts as the necessary foundation for any art of persuasion is a demand addressed to those who write about the art of speaking, not to those who merely practice it. Socrates has justified his own apparent exemption from the requirements he announces, by attributing his own power of persuasion to divine inspiration (cf. 262d). Phaedrus requests a repetition of the principles laid down for an art of speaking because he is, presumably, confused by Socrates' interwoven references to speaking and writing. But this repetition, which Socrates introduces as the "method of writing by art," seems to present the necessary conditions only for persuasion in speech: "Since the power of speech happens to be soul-leading," the student of rhetoric must acquire knowledge of the number and quality of the eide of soul—which, as Socrates now adds, determine the natures of individual men—and of the number and quality of the eide of speeches, and of the effects produced by certain kinds of speeches on certain men for the purpose of persuasion; he must be able to recognize with his senses a particular individual as belonging to a particular class, to discern the proper time for speaking and remaining silent, and to judge the right occasions for particular speeches with certain purposes (27Id—272a). Precisely those characteristics which Socrates finally denies to the written word (cf. 275d-e) are now identified as the method of writing artfully. But Socrates concludes his repetition by attributing the manifesto to the writer of a treatise on the art of speaking, who questions Socrates and Phaedrus for their agreement with his principles (272b). The investigation of the standards for artful persuasion in speech, which was in fact occasioned by the written speech of Lysias, begins with a consideration of the criteria for artful speech or writing (271b-c), addressed to those who write about the art of speaking, and is repeated as a model for an artfully written exposition on the art of speaking (272b); the analysis of the rhetorike tekhne, identified as an art of writing whose subject matter is the art of speaking, thus mirrors the hidden structure of the discussion occupying the entire second half of the dialogue in its covert transitions from the problem of writing to that of speaking and writing, to that of speaking alone, returning only in conclusion to the problem of writing itself. In this convoluted path of imitation, Plato speaks through Socrates, who speaks through the voice of a writer on the art of speaking in order to demand, in any written exposition of the art of speaking, the application of the principles of dialectics to the nature of soul if rhetoric is to fulfill its claim as a tiue art of persuasion. In response to the standards Socrates establishes for the true rhetorike tekhne, Phaedrus can remember no other method, while he divines that the attainment of an art of speaking based on a dialectics of soul is " n o small deed" (272b). For

the first and only time in their encounter, Socrates tells Phaedrus, "You speak truly" (272d). Although he is willing to examine all their words, looking for an easier and shorter path, Phaedrus cannot remember hearing of any simpler method from Lysias or any others (272c); he has, apparently, already forgotten

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Socrates' description offcis eikon of the soul as a human and shorter path chosen instead of the divine and longer analysis of the idea of the soul (cf. 246a). Rather than remind Phaedrus of this path, however, Socrates chooses to warn him of the inherent danger in any image-making, with its substitution of the likely for knowledge of the true. Socrates attempts, once more, to conduct a fair hearing for the art of persuasion against the demand for the principles of dialectics as the necessary foundation of all art. Socrates therefore speaks as advocate for the "wolf," 43 claiming that the effective rhetorician need not know the truth about the just or the good, but only about "the likely," which is the real source of persuasion (272e). Because Phaedrus suddenly remembers the importance of this defense for the claimants to the art of speaking, Socrates carries on the argument with such a claimant in the person of Tisias, who offers the "wise and artful" definition of "the likely" as the opinion of the many (273b). 44 In the struggle against Tisias, to whom Phaedrus has "listened sharply," Socrates claims Phaedrus's allegiance for the defense of dialectics, repeating that the success of arguments based on probability depends upon their likeness to the truth (273d). While the strength of the argument of the "wolf' lies in its identification of the criterion for art with the effectiveness of persuasion irrespective of truth, Socrates practices his own persuasion in demonstrating that even the fulfillment of that end is best accomplished by an art based on knowledge of the truth (274a). The ability to number (diarithmesetai) the natuwtof one's listeners, to divide the beings by eide and to bring together the many mto one idea, is therefore confirmed as the condition for the true art of speaking (273d-e). But the demand for an "arithmetic" of the natures of men provides a standard by which to measure the deficiency of Tisias's claim to an art of persuasion without defending the ground of its own possibility. In what seems to be a mere repetition of the conditions for the precise art of speaking, Socrates replaces the original demand for knowledge of the soul by the demand for knowledge of the nature of the man to whom a speech is addressed, without explicating the relation between the division of human "natures" and the division of the eide of the beings together with their collection into an idea. Having first established the general principles of collection and division (265d-e) and having then applied these principles as the condition for the artful investigation of any nature (270d), Socrates offered at the center of the discussion two accounts of the conditions for the art of persuasion, demanding knowledge of the simplicity or complexity of soul and of the effects of the interaction of various classes of speeches and soul (271a, 27 Id); only now, in this examination of the rhetorician's claim to possess an art of persuasion based on mere probability, does Socrates define the true art of speaking on the basis of the standard of dialectic

knowledge of the subject matter of any speech together with knowledge of the perspective of the listener to whom that subject is being communicated. Socrates thus frames the two central accounts, with their demand for an investigation of the nature of soul, by reflecting the initial analysis ascribed to Hippocrates and

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the "true logos," with its requirements for the investigation of any nature, in this present response to Tisias, with its demand for dialectic knowledge of the nature of those to whom a speech is addressed together with knowledge of the beings as an articulated whole. One further analysis of the true art of speaking or writing, at the conclusion of the examination of the status of the written word (277b-c), will in turn reflect Socrates' original account of the general principles of collection and division as the foundation of all speech and thought, and thus provide one last frame to complete the structure underlying the apparently random order of the discussion on the tekhne of logos. In his final account of the standards for an art of persuasion, which precedes the analysis of the status of the art of writing, Socrates implies the identity of knowledge of likenesses with knowledge of the truth, where truth must be understood as the interaction of kinds of souls with the objective structure of the ideas, and artful speech as the harmonious convergence of persuasion and instruction. The principles which Socrates lays down for the art of speaking seem to hide, under the assumption of a harmonious parallel between knowledge of the beings and knowledge of soul, any recognition of the internal tension between the stable identity of the beings and the ever-moving motion of soul; Socrates justifiably qualifies his articulation of the standard of the "truly persuasive art," which must be pursued "to the extent of human capacity" (273e). In contrasting Tisias's " slavish ness to fellow slaves" with the way of dialectics as "servitude to our good and well-born masters" (274a), Socrates recalls his original rejection of "buying honor among men at the price of sinning before the gods" (242d); he confirms the repudiation of his first erotic speech, intended to capture Phaedrus's admiration, in favor of his recantation, addressed finally to the god Eros. The demand for much toil in the pursuit of these great ends echoes Socrates' warning to Phaedrus against the slavishness of succumbing to the seductive charms of the servants of the Muses (259a). Socrates ascribes the demand for "servitude to the gods" to "those wiser than we" (274a); but since those whom Socrates follows like a god are none but the "dialecticians," this servitude to the gods must be nothing other than the activity of dialectics. While Socrates' hymn to Eros disclosed his apparent madness as true moderation, the critical discussion of the art of speaking discloses, beneath Socrates' apparent humility, his true hubris. The condition for a true art of speaking is determined by nothing less than the standard of complete knowledge of the collection and division by eide of the beings reflected in all classes of human perspective; in his demand for the principles of dialectics as the necessary foundation of the true art of rhetoric Socrates points to that desired transformation of eros to philosophic eros presupposed by his recantation. That the desirability of the true art of speaking cannot be judged by its attainability Socrates suggests in his concluding remark, that "it is beautiful to strive after what is beautiful, and to suffer whatever one happens to suffer" (274b).

V

*

I

THE ART OF WRITING

But he who believes that, in the written word, there is necessarily much playfulness, and that no speech, in meter or without, worthy of great seriousness, has yet been written... but that the best of them, in truth, become reminders to us of what we know... perhaps that man, Phaedrus, is such as you and I might pray we may become. (278a-b)

Socrates' analysis of the relation between rhetoric and dialectics seems to bring the discussion on the art of speaking to a conclusion; but the implicit tension between the standard for any art based on the ideas of collection and division, and the dubious status of an art of persuasion, necessarily brings to the surface the issue hidden beneath the conversation from the outset. The discussion on the art of speaking thus emerges as a long digression on the initial question of the value of the written word, which Socrates recalls through his report of an "Egyptian story" about the discovery of the art of writing. In this dialogue between two animal-gods, Theuth, the Egyptian Prometheus, introduces with great pride his new discovery of the grammata, while the rejection of his discovery by the sovereign god Thamuz-Ammon seems to be accepted by Socrates as the final word on the value of writing. But the condemnation of writing as a poison rather than a beneficial drug comes from the voice of a supreme and immortal being who seems to ignore the limitations of the human condition that might make this dangerous art necessary. The dialogue between Theuth and Thamuz is a microcosmic Platonic dialogue, which requires an interpretation in light of the demand for the "adaptation of speeches to souls." By insisting on the danger of the product of writing as an artificial memory which may usurp the role of living thought, the prophecy of Ammon in fact points to the potential value of the written word as "reminder to one who knows." The written words which condemn those who trust in their clarity and firmness thus demonstrate their transcendance of the very dangers they announce. The dialogue within the dialogue, condemning the written word for its power to create the illusion of wisdom without the reality, is appropriately identified as an "Egyptian story," for the fitting model of that writing which is "truly like the painting of living animals" is Egyptian hieroglyphics. The opposi-

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tion between Greece and Egypt, indicated by the conflict between Theuth and Thamuz, is thus reflected in the opposition between alphabetic writing, a representation of living speech, and hieroglyphic writing, an imitation of the visual appearance of that to which it refers. The distinction between alphabetic writing, in which a meaningful whole is constituted by the combination of meaningless parts, and hieroglyphic writing, in which a single symbol constitutes a meaningful whole without the combination of parts, reflects the distinction between the dialectic exchange of logos and the monologic recital of muthos. If the love-speeches in the Phaedrus function as hieroglyphic symbols, while the logos on rhetoric, dialectics, and writing provides an alphabet, the very structure of the dialogue would point to the distance between the Platonic art of writing and that condemned by Socrates in alliance with the Egyptian god-king. Socrates' critique of the silent written word is thus shown to be a condemnation of a part, and not the whole, of the art of writing. The discriminating selectivity and power of selfprotection which are denied to the illegitimate logos are, through that very denial, made manifest by the Platonic logos, which therefore identifies the legitimate offspring of thought, not with all living speech in opposition to dead writing, but with all dialectic speech or writing. Precisely that written work which betrays an awareness of its own lack of clarity and firmness, and thereby demonstrates its knowledge of when to speak and when to remain silent, would reveal the possibility of overcoming the reproach against the shamefulness of writing alienated from Socrates' erotic dialectics. The Platonic art of writing thus imitates the lover of wisdom, who disparages the playfulness of writing in light of the seriousness of dialectic speech, while bestowing his praise on that product of writing composed with knowledge of the truth and "really written in the soul of the learner," hence worthy of the name 'philoso-

pHy.'

W W W I T H HIS AFFIRMATION OF THE BEAUTY OF THE T R U E ART OF SPEAKING, RE-

gardless of its questionable attainability, Socrates announces the sufficiency of their investigation (274b); the art of speaking has become an object of eros, desirable even if unfulfillable. But Socrates, who has not forgotten the original question which set their discussion in motion, suddenly interrupts this apparent

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conclusion by introducfng the question of propriety and impropriety in writing. His interjection of the problem of beautiful writing is all the more surprising since he has, moments before, provided an imitation of the method of writing artfully (cf. 271c); that imitation, however, offers a paradigm for artful writing about the art of speaking, while the question of the value of writing itself remains unresolved. The problem of writing does not seem able to stand on its own; it emerges only as a supplement to its own digression dealing with the art of speaking.1 After concluding the digression on the art of speaking with the distinction between speaking or acting for the favor of fellow men and speaking or acting, to the best of our ability, in a manner pleasing to the gods (273e), Socrates introduces the problem of writing with the question of "how to best please god, acting or speaking about logoi" (274b). A written speech which condemns the activity of writing expresses a possible tension between speaking and acting with regard to speeches. The conflict between what Socrates says about writing and what Plato does in writing warns us that the standard for speaking about logoi may not coincide with that for acting.2 This explicit separation of speech and action, which introduces the problem of writing, emerges through a consideration of the difference between human standards and divine; the defense of the activity of writing, which only appears to be condemned in speech while it is being practiced in deed, must depend upon human comprehension of the distinction between man and god. The separation of human and divine eros supplied the inner articulation for the comprehensive whole of eros as madness, while the division between the love-speeches collected together and their critical examination was based upon the distinction between divine inspiration and human art. The division between divine and human thus underlies the internal structure of the dialogue as an organic whole, while, as the conclusion of the dialogue reveals, it provides at the same time the ground for defending the necessity of the art of writing. In response to the question of how to please god about logoi, Socrates offers to relate what he has heard from the ancients (274c). Contrary to his apparent veneration for the knowledge of the ancients, however, Socrates immediately questions the willingness to accept human opinion. The tale itself can be passed on from one generation to another, but the knowledge of its truth cannot. This separation of acquired opinion and self-discovery, introduced through the question of the proper response to the myth, already points to the theme of the myth concerning the nature of the product of writing. Although Phaedrus readily agrees that concern for human opinion is laughable, he begs Socrates simply to repeat what he has heard. The tale which Socrates reports consists of a dialogue between two Egyptian animal-gods; Theuth, who proudly presents his new discovery of the grammata, is rebuked by his sovereign judge, Thamuz, who prophesies the danger of this "drug" for human memory. At the conclusion of the report, Phaedrus complains that Socrates easily produces speeches from Egypt or wherever else he pleases

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(275b), Socrates reproaches Phaedrus for his greater concern with the speaker and his origin than with the truth of the speech. But Socrates' ironic criticism of Phaedrus's resistance to the meaning of the myth serves as a reminder of their prior agreement, resulting from the entire discussion on the art of speaking, that the truth of a speech can only be grasped in light of the perspective of its speaker and its audience. The myth about writing must, then, be considered in light of its attribution to the Egyptians, whose antiquarian wisdom is inseparable from their reverence for their "sacred writings."3 The Egyptian esteem for the ancestral,4 their preoccupation with the dead,5 the rigidity of their social classes,6 their acceptance of kings who are gods,7 and their association with the love of money, 8 all make Egypt the fitting source for a story about the art of writing. Interpretation of the mythical dialogue that Socrates reports thus depends upon the symbolic identification of Egypt as the ancient, Greece as the modern.9 The Egyptians worship the dead, the Greeks the living.10 Egyptian memory is "hoary with age," the Greeks "all young in soul." 11 The wise man of Egypt is the priest, of Greece the philosopher.12 The Egyptian "type" is a lover of money, the Greek a lover of learning.13 The Egyptian god appears as an animal, the Greek god as a man. 14 The Egyptian monarch is a god, the Greek ruler a man. 15 Egypt is a single empire, Greece a collection of cities. 16 Egyptian law is considered an immutable divine code, Greek law as the creation of human reason.17 The political and philosophic significance of the symbolic distinction between Egypt and Greece is reflected, not accidentally, in the nature of their distinctive arts of writing. The Egyptians respect their sacred writings, the Greeks respect living speech. Egyptian hieroglyphic writing may be understood as a direct imitation of the objects it represents, Greek alphabetic writing must be understood as the representation of oral speech. 18 The symbolic opposition between Greece and Egypt shows up in Socrates' myth as an opposition between the arts and the ancestral, or between the human and the divine. The discoverer of the primary elements of the arts is the god-man Theuth, the legendary culture-hero who imparts the gifts of civilization to his people in rebellion against the commands of a jealous god. Theuth is the Egyptian Prometheus.19 His origin is the Athenian emporium of Naucratis, representative territory of the Greek polis in the Egyptian empire. 20 The discovery of the arts shares its origin with the growth of trade and the economic development of the city; Athens in particular, protectress of the arts, represents the motherland of their inventor and defender. This godlike discoverer of numbers and letters is, however, only a technician;21 he has the ability to bring forth arts, but not to judge of their usefulness or harm to their users (274e). 22 Theuth must therefore defend his discovery before the sovereign Thamuz-Ammon, who rules in the "great city of the upper place which the Greeks call the Egyptian Thebes." 23 If Naucratis represents the modern, the rise of trade and of the arts, identified with the territory of Greece, Thebes represents the ancient, home of the oracle and his priests, originally identified with the whole of Egypt.24 Socrates claims that the

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Greeks call the god thamuz "Ammon," the hidden, 25 and "Ammon" is the Egyptian name for Zeus. 26 This identity Socrates confirms at the close of his tale through his analogy between the "prophecy of Ammon" and "the first prophetic sayings" uttered by the holy oak of Zeus at Dodona (275b). 27 Socrates reports nothing of the dialogue between the sovereign Thamuz and the technician Theuth concerning the discovery of the numbers;28 it is the judgment on the grammata which determines the significance of Socrates' Egyptian story for his conversation with Phaedrus. Theuth, the medicine man, who has discovered a drug (pharmakon) for human memory and wisdom (274e), is advised by Ammon, the oracular god-king, to leave the human condition as it is by nature, without the interference of human art. 29 While we hear the judgment which Thamuz delivers on the discovery of Theuth, we are not told the outcome of the conversation; just as Zeus found it necessary to punish Prometheus, while leaving in the hands of men his dangerous gift of fire and the arts, perhaps Thamuz found it necessary to punish Theuth, while leaving in the hands of men his dangerous discovery of the art of writing.30 Theuth praises his art for its ability to make the Egyptians "wiser and give them better memories" (274e); but the ambiguity of "memory" raises the question of whether a drug for memory is necessarily an aid to wisdom,31 for the natural rhythm of thinking may be usurped by the artificial assistance of reading.32 Theuth, as the royal god charges, is blind to the dangers of his discovery because of his fatherly affection for his own offspring (275a). Socrates' later reproach against the dependence of the written work upon the father who must protect it (275e) is foreshadowed by Ammon's censure of the art of writing, misjudged by the father who loves it. Man's love for the product of his own activity makes him praise it for exactly that quality exhibiting, in truth, the opposite power: Theuth has discovered, not a drug for memory, but only for "reminding" (275a). The art of writing, which encourages men to neglect the use of their own memory and lets them believe that they know what they have merely read, in fact produces forgetfulness. The danger of the art which Theuth discovers but cannot judge lies in its power to hide its own unnatural nature. Theuth's discovery is a transgression of the natural limitation which distinguishes mortal man from immortal god. 33 But this natural limitation of mortality guarantees the inevitably imperfect health of human memory, and the necessary instrument for the treatment of this disease is the drug of writing. Theuth, the god of writing, is the god who escorts the souls of the dead, but the god who escorts the souls of the dead is also the god of healing. 34 It is only insofar as it remains external to our memory, while concealing such externality> that the drug of writing cannot cure the disease of mortality. As a drug, writing is both remedy and poison; the danger of this unnatural invention must be weighed against its power for the restoration of nature. 35 Only a jealous god, omniscient and omnipotent by nature, could simply condemn the art of writing for its artificiality. In his condemnation of the discovery of Theuth, the oracular god-king does indeed reveal its limitations; but

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it is precisely the acknowledgment of those limitations which allows the poisonous external product of writing to be "internalized" in its capacity for healing. The justification for the harsh judgment of Thamuz against the danger of the written word is most appropriately illustrated by Socrates' encounter with Phaedrus. Phaedrus has charmed Socrates into wandering around the countryside outside the walls of the city, leading him by the drug of speeches in books (230d), just as the nymph Oreithyia is carried off by Boreas only in the company of Pharmakeia (cf. 229c). The truth of the warning uttered by Thamuz is displayed in Phaedrus's response to the drug which supposedly captivates Socrates: it is his eagerness for "reading many things in books" that leads Phaedrus "to think himself wise without really understanding anything" (cf. 275a). Phaedrus unwittingly makes fun of his own character when, in their examination of the criteria for all artful investigation, he speaks for the true physician, who would respond to a mere technician by calling him mad if he imagined himself to be in possession of the art when he has merely read something in a book (268c). The essential danger of the written word is its power to produce the appearance of wisdom without the reality (275b). The written word produces that pretense to wisdom (doxosophia) which constitutes the most recalcitrant obstacle to the pursuit of wisdom,36 Since the attempt to uncover the unmoving ignorance of doxosophia represents the mission to which Socrates devotes his life, the condemnation of the written word by the royal god echoes, most fittingly, Socrates' condemnation of those with whom he converses.37 The conversation between the oracular Thamuz-Ammon and the ibis-headed Theuth is Plato's amusing imitation of the unwritten dialogue between Socrates and himself. Socrates reports Theuth's initial claims for the benefit of his new discovery as well as the judgment on those claims by Thamuz-Ammon; he does not report any response by Theuth to this critique. The defense which Theuth might have offered—and the only defense which would legitimately meet the attack of the oracular god—must be reconstructed by the reader of the Platonic dialogue, which is itself the implicit self-examination of that unreported defense. Socrates had introduced his Egyptian story with a distinction between acceptance of human opinion and one's own discovery of the truth (274c). The original division between the story itself as received opinion and one's interpretation of it as truth undergoes an ironic transformation when Socrates finally criticizes Phaedrus's resistance to the truth of the myth by drawing a distinction between the simplistic acceptance of the ancients, who trust in the truth of divine prophecy, and the scepticism of the moderns, who are concerned only with the speaker's name and origin. In identifying his myth with the prophetic utterance of a supreme god, Socrates claims to represent the natural oracular power of an oak or rock, of Dodona or Delphi. When Socrates speaks of his humanity, manifested in the particularity of his own origin, he rejects the claim of "spring-

ing from an oak or a rock";3® now Socrates rejects his individuality as a mere man among men. Socrates concludes his story by accepting, apparently without ques-

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tion, the prophecy of-Ammon, who reproaches the technician Theuth for transgressing the limitations of nature. But in sharing this very reproach, Socrates identifies himself with a wise and powerful god-king, and thus implies his own transgression of human limitations.39 While Socrates seems to use himself as an illustration of the danger of unquestioned acceptance of divine prophecy, it is precisely this danger which is illuminated by the contents of the prophecy condemning the art of writing. In his paradoxical appearance of embracing the prophecy of Ammon, Socrates thus recalls his opening remarks on the necessity of understanding the truth of a received myth in light of the quest for self-knowledge (cf. 230a). Myth, like the product of writing, possesses a twofold power, for benefit or harm; that which enables it to function as stimulus to self-knowledge can equally function to suppress the search for self-knowledge. Writing can be a drug of reminding only when recognized as no replacement for memory. In alliance with the oracular Ammon, Socrates thus confirms the status of the muthologema as a paradigm for the written word. He warns us that the truth of the myth that apparently rejects the art of writing stands in need of our interpretative encounter. The rejection of writing represents the truth of the myth only from the perspective of a god; human understanding of the truth of the myth requires knowledge of the adaptation of speeches to particular souls (cf. 271d, 272b, 273d, 277b-c). 4 0 The Egyptian stoTy about writing is indeed a jewellike miniature of the Platonic dialogue. The irony of Socrates' apparent praise for the simplicity of the ancients in their unexamined acceptance of divine prophecy is immediately revealed in his censure of an even greater simplicity, exhibited by "whoever leaves behind or receives the product of writing with trust in its clarity and firmness" (275c). This clarity and firmness, perceived by the simple, must be the opposite of the complexity of speech which Socrates demands for complex soul (cf. 277c); only through recognition of its complexity can the otherwise "dead" written word be brought to life through an encounter with its reader. To be aware of the deceptive clarity and firmness of the written word is to recognize the warning of Ammon against its unacknowledged dependence. Awareness of the prophecy of Ammon thus constitutes the condition for the actualization of the one positive function ascribed to the written word, its power as "reminder to one who knows" (cf. 275c). The capacity of the written word as reminder seems to be merely a concession on the part of the royal god who condemns the written word for its dangerous power of producing forgetfulness. But the clue to the significance of the capacity for reminding was already hidden in Socrates' recantation, which he claimed to deliver in honor of memory (cf. 250c): insofar as man is unlike the gods, hence not at rest on the back of the heavens and feasting on the vision of the beings which always are, the value of all "earthly likenesses" lies in their power as reminders of what was once known. The value which Socrates ascribes to the beautiful, in initiating the experience of eros as source of our greatest blessings, is thus finally assigned to the written word, as reminder for one who knows. In

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praising the beautiful for its power of reminding, Socrates had concealed its inherent danger; in disclosing the danger of the written word, he conceals its inherent power. In the beginning of their investigation of the speeches on eras, Socrates had announced that all speech must be put together "like a living animal" (264c), with apparent reference to its formal structure. He now uncovers the substantive significance of his apparently formal principle of rhetoric, for the art which Theuth introduces as a drug for the healing of living beings Socrates identifies as "truly like the art of painting living beings" (27 5d). If speeches are living animals, written speeches are like paintings of living animals, not themselves alive, but only imitations. The illusion produced by an imitation which does not acknowledge itself as an imitation constitutes the apparent clarity and firmness of the written word, creating that trust which Socrates considers the mark of simplicity and ignorance of the truth (cf 275c). The creatures of painting stand forth like animals, but if one asks them a question they maintain a solemn silence. The product of writing, like the creature of painting, is not an independent being with a life of its own, able to speak for itself; it requires its begetter to protect it against unjust abuse. The creatures of painting do not exhibit the self-moving motion that defines the presence of soul; the dead, written word, like the painted animal, is frozen in the stream of motion: "You might opine that they speak as if having intelligence, but if someone were to question them, wishing to understand their sayings, they always signify one and the same" (275d), The product of writing remains the same no matter who receives it, not knowing when to speak and when to remain silent (27 5e); the written speech displays no erotic impulse toward a particular audience. In condemning the nonerotic nature of the written word, Socrates seems to imply its potential for objectivity. Yet as long as the potential for objectivity precludes the possibility of erotic selectivity, the written word could not overcome the limitations which account for its inferiority to living speech. The repeatability of the product of writing looks like that immutability of the ideai which renders them possible objects of knowledge. But the process of coming to know, which must unfold through the motion of soul, cannot be mere external repetition. The repeatability of the product of writing, which serves as the basis for its potential value, can deceptively replace the living process of thought which it ought to set in motion. The realization of the potential value of the product of writing thus depends upon the possibility of a self-protective written speech which could possess the self-moving motion signifying the presence of soul. Just when the Platonic Socrates condemns the product of writing for its dependence on its father and its inability to protect itself against unjust abuse, the very acknowledgment of these limitations allows the dialogue to protect itself against unjust abuse; by issuing a warning against its potential deceptiveness, the dialogue calls forth from its reader the activity of interpretation which enables it to overcome the very danger it announces. The danger of the written word's creating the illusion of wisdom while remain-

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ing external to the sj»ul of the learner is expressed through the image of the painted imitation. But while the prophecy of Ammon is supported by the analogy of writing to painting, just those characteristics specified by the analogy seem to be absent from that writing exemplified by the Platonic dialogue.41 The art of writing which is "truly like the painting of living animals" finds its appropriate model in the art of Egyptian hieroglyphics, handed down without innovation from one generation to another, guarded and controlled by the sacred priests of Ammon; dependent upon memorization and repetition, it exemplifies the nature of that nondialectic writing, alienated from living speech, which Socrates condemns. In contrast with alphabetic writing, which provides for the representation of living speech, hieroglyphic writing provides an imitation of the visual appearance of its referent, without the intermediary of spoken language.42 Each of the "painted animals" of hieroglyphic writing is a meaningful symbol whose reference may be determined by its context; but the range of possible meanings for each symbol is fixed by convention and must be preserved through memory. With alphabetic writing, in contrast, a meaningful whole is produced by weaving together atomic units meaningless in themselves; the alphabetic system thus allows the greatest potential for expression with the fewest symbolic units of convention. If hieroglyphic writing is the art of a class of initiates, alphabetic writing is in principle democratic. The hieroglyphic symbol consists in a visual image of that to which it refers, but it is through logos that men must investigate those beings which possess no "earthly likenesses" (cf. 258d). 43 The hieroglyphic symbol, like the written word in general, could escape its own limitations only by acknowledging its dependence on the self-moving motion of thinking; but the interpretation of the hieroglyph replaces the demand for logos with the memorization of received opinion. Hieroglyphics thus provide the model for that silent, external product of writing which a dialectic art of writing must seek to overcome. The image of this dialectic writing is the alphabetic system, for the combination of vowel and consonant in the representation of sound reflects the combination of non-selfsufficient parts necessary for the activity of dialectics.44 If the alphabet serves as a fitting image for the interwoven logos of dialectic writing, the hieroglyph, as a single symbol carrying an ambiguous range of meanings, is an image for the myth or monologic speech which must be subjected to interpretation.45 In the Phaedrus, the speeches on love function as hieroglyphic symbols, while the logos on rhetoric, dialectics, and writing provides an alphabet; by illustrating the necessary subjection of hieroglyphic muthos to the logos of exchanged question and answer, Plato differentiates his own art of writing from the "picture-writing" condemned by Socrates and the Egyptian god-king.46 Confirming the silent assumption of another logos not subject to the criticism of the written word that is like a painting, Socrates asks about the existence of its "legitimate brother," distinguished in its manner of coming into being as well as in its better and more powerful nature (276a). The contrast between the living

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and the painted animal is replaced by that between legitimate and illegitimate offspring; the written logos is no longer the product of human fabrication but, like its living counterpart, the result of natural generation. The illegitimate logos, with its awesome silence, looks like an act of parricide, but in fact it remains completely dependent upon its father for its own protection. The legitimate logos, capable of achieving its desired independence through its potential for self-protection, is in fact the real act of parricide, which paradoxically provides protection for the mortal father whom it replaces. To be well-born according to the standard of law is to be capable of being brought to life through the presence of soul. 47 The ability to judge of that capacity, hence to discriminate between the legitimate and illegitimate child of thought, Socrates attributes to himself, on the basis of his own barrenness.48 Against the resentment generated by this ability, Socrates must defend himself before the Athenian demos, whom he looks on as children demanding the death of their father. 49 Since, however, the barrenness which gives Socrates his power of discrimination at the same time precludes the productive activity of writing, his capacity or willingness to defend himself seems to be severely limited. 50 Yet the apparent sterility of Socrates' speeches, which seems to be guaranteed by the mortality of their father, is in fact overcome by their true fertility, exemplified by the Platonic dialogues, which claim to be the legitimate offspring of Socratic speech. The legitimate logos, however, can achieve its purpose only by demonstrating its independence from its begetter, whom it replaces; the Platonic dialogue must bear responsibility for its deed of parricide against Socrates.51 It is precisely by announcing the death of Socrates as a living individual, through the acknowledgement of its status as an imitation, that the dialogue offers its own self-defense as "legitimate logos," providing the necessary support for the mortal father whom it replaces.52 The Platonic Socrates exhibits his awareness of this support in his description of the more powerful logos as "written with knowledge in the soul of the learner, able to defend itself, knowing when to speak and when to remain silent" (276a). It is Phaedrus who describes this "legitimate logos" as "the living and breathing word of the knower, of which the written word may justly be called the specter [eidolon]" (276a), Ignoring Socrates' metaphor of a logos written in the soul, Phaedrus identifies the better and more powerful logos with all spontaneous speech in general, while he himself, a "living and ensouled speaker," has no knowledge of its true nature "written in his soul"; 53 the true opinion which Phaedrus expresses in his definition of the legitimate logos, without understanding its identification, constitutes a perfect image of the illegitimate logos which Socrates condemns. In response to Phaedrus's identification of the legitimate and the illegitimate as a distinction between the ensouled logos and its written eidolon, Socrates replaces the metaphor of natural generation with that of the agricultural art, whose rules are determined by the demands of nature. In accordance with this model for the distinction between the legitimate and the illegitimate logos, the soul

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must be understood ^ the ground itself in which the seeds of logoi are to be planted by the speaker for the fruit they will yield. In place of the contrast between a painted imitation and a living being,.the tension between art and nature is now illustrated by the contrast between the artificial paidia of planting seeds in Adonis pots in the heat of summer and the serious effort of planting seeds in fitting ground according to the art of farming; in contrast with the celebrant in the Adonis festival, who delights in the seeds he has planted when they emerge in beauty in eight days,54 the serious farmer is content with the attainment of their maturity in eight months. If the art of agriculture is a primary condition of civilization, the Adonis garden is a mere refinement; the playful celebration in honor of the god of vegetation constitutes man's artful imitation of the cycle of nature.55 But while Socrates appears to spurn the playful Adonis garden in favor of the serious art of agriculture, he in fact ascribes only to the artificial soil the power of yielding fruit that is beautiful. Having already ignored Socrates' qualification in his condemnation of the dead written word, Phaedrus must interpret the contrast between the playfulness of Adonis gardens and the seriousness of fruit growing in fitting soil as an image for the opposition of writing and spontaneous speech; but Socrates, who identifies that which is "more beautiful" with the seriousness of the dialectic art (cf. 276e), must understand his image as a representation of the opposition between the rootless, illegitimate logos which is like a silent painting and the dialectic logos, spoken or written, whose roots are planted in the soul of the learner. The fruits of logoi harvested by the artful cultivator of souls are grown from the seeds of his knowledge of the just, the beautiful, and the good;56 if such a farmer were serious, Socrates insists, he could not "sow his seeds through a reed in a river of ink, with logoi unable to defend themselves nor to teach the truth adequately" (276c). In this apparent condemnation of the playfulness of writing in general, Socrates hides an important restriction: serious cultivation of the seeds of knowledge is impossible only for the nondialectic art of writing, which is unable to defend itself and is unfit to "adequately teach the truth," Planting the "garden of letters" is, nevertheless, a paidia, which shares with drinking parties and "kindred amusements" the necessary condition of leisure (276d). But inundation by the stream of desire which accompanies the "watering" of drinking parties (cf. 256c) is now replaced by the river of ink irrigating the tender growths in the ground of those souls who follow the same path as the cultivator. Such followers possess the capacity for experiencing the same memory of what was once known as he who stored up in solitude the treasure of reminders against forgetfulness (276d). The value of the experience of eros which makes it the source of our greatest blessings is therefore assigned to the paidia of writing, which in solitude cultivates from seeds of knowledge the garden of letters as reminders of the truth. The footprints of the "dialectician" whom Socrates professes to follow (cf. 266b) are, at the same time, replaced by the imprints of the written word. But the abiding traces of footprints only satisfy their promise when filled with the living presence of one who fits them. 57 The peril of being lost is

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occasioned less by the total darkness of no footprints than by the obscurity of following footprints without awareness of their nature as empty images demanding to be properly filled. Phaedrus illustrates the peril of following footprints without awareness of their status as mere traces by following Socrates' true opinion in acknowledging the necessary playfulness of the written word without understanding its justification or implications. Whereas Socrates is interested in distinguishing playful from serious speech, Phaedrus only divides noble from base playfulness: "A most beautiful paidia you speak of, in contrast with the base, Socrates, that of the ability to play in logoi, mythologizing about justice and the other things of which you speak" (276e). Socrates accepts Phaedrus's division, but insists on adding a higher option, for "to be serious about them is more beautiful." He thus reminds Phaedrus of the division between playfulness and seriousness that was just illustrated by the contrast between the playful speeches on eros and the serious principles of dialectics which they happened to reveal (cf. 265d). The true standard for serious beauty Socrates discovers, therefore, in the dialectic art of one who, "taking a fitting soul, plants and sows words with knowledge, able to help themselves and their planter, not without fruit, but having seeds from which other words grow in other souls, able to continue the process forever, and making the possessor happy as far as humanly possible" (277a). To plant the garden of letters with a river of ink is necessarily playful in comparison with the seriousness of planting in fitting souls the seeds of knowledge; but Socrates says nothing about their mutual exclusivity. Faced with the challenge of confronting Phaedrus's love of speeches for the sake of pleasure, Socrates is compelled to abandon the problem of distinguishing living speech from writing, in order to establish the primary distinction between speech or writing which is merely playful and that which legitimately fulfills the claim to serious worth. Phaedrus readily agrees to Socrates' affirmation of the greater beauty of the serious art of dialectics, without understanding Socrates' implicit acknowledgment of the possibility of a dialectic art of writing exemplified by the serious playfulness of the Platonic dialogue. Insofar as it represents the fruit of the seeds of knowledge sown by Socrates in the ground of Plato's soul, sowing in turn its own seeds in the ground of the souls of its readers, the dialogue itself constitutes the model of the immortal process of dialectics. The generation of legitimate logoi through the dialectic ait—which transcends the distinction between speech and writing—exemplifies that immortal "self-moving motion" which Socrates first presents as "the truth about the nature of soul divine and human" (cf. 245c). Phaedrus's agreement about the hierarchy of beauty, in which base and noble playfulness must be subordinated to the seriousness of dialectics, Socrates now presents as the necessary foundation for their judgment on the original questions of the discussion, which Phaedrus no longer remembers (277b). Socrates reminds Phaedrus of the perplexities which set their investigation into motion: "the reproach against Lysias as speechwriter" and the problem of "whether the

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speeches themselves \^re written with or without^ait" (cf. 258d, 262c). Having established the necessity of the dialectic art for all serious speech, Socrates believes they have measurably disclosed what is artful and what is not (277b). But when Phaedrus requests a reminder, Socrates willingly offers a summary of the conditions for art, "as far as the genos of speeches can be naturally managed, either for the purpose of instruction or for persuasion" (277c). While admitting that speech may not be perfectly capable of control by art, Socrates insists upon the impossibility of practicing a tekhne of logos until "someone knows the truth about each thing of which he speaks or writes, proves able to define each in its entirety, then having defined, knows how to cut it again by eide down to the indivisible parts; then, having discerned in the same way the nature of soul, discovering the eidos fitting for each nature, he thus arranges and adorns the speech, giving complex and completely harmonious speeches to complex soul, simple speeches to simple soul" (277c). Between the original description of the principles of collection and division which Socrates introduced as the serious benefit of his playful love-speeches (265d), and the present summary of the requirements for an art of speaking or writing, Socrates has provided, with almost unnoticeable variations, an account not only of the requirements for the investigation of any nature whatsoever (270d), not only of the requirements for an investigation of the nature of soul in particular (271a, 27Id), but also of the standards for a true art of rhetoric based on the collection and division of the beings about which one speaks together with knowledge of the nature of the listener to whom one speaks (273d-e), The particular context of the present repetition of those standards, at the conclusion of the discussion on the art of writing, implicitly raises the question of how the division between persuasion and instruction is related to the division between speaking and writing. Socrates' initial presentation of the principles of collection through definition and division by eide establishes the demand for knowledge of the structure of the whole and the parts of the beings, which constitutes, so it seems, the "matter" of instruction. Only when the art of speaking is identified with the purpose of persuasion are the principles of dialectics set forth as the necessary condition for knowledge of soul. Yet, insofar as knowledge of soul is inseparable from the "collection and division" of the beings, it would seem impossible to separate the art of persuasion from instruction; the suggestion of this interdependence was in feet introduced by Socrates' original defense delivered in the voice of the art of speaking, who claims that "without my help, knowledge of the beings does not produce the art of persuasion" (260d). 58 The divergence of persuasion and instruction, however, seems to be indicated by the structure of the dialogue as a whole. For while the purpose of persuasion led to the illusory presentation of each speech on eros as a whole in itself, the purpose of instruction led to the recognition of the unity of the speeches as a model for the principles of collection and division. While Socrates' recantation, delivered in the effort to lead Phaedrus toward "love with philosophic speeches," seems to suggest the unity of persuasion and instruction, it reveals in feet the

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tension between erotics and dialectics, through the image of the tension between the desire to follow the one god most like oneself and the desire for the vision of the superuranian ideas as the true goal of eros. If the desired objectivity of an art of speaking is rendered impossible by the lover's inevitable attempt at persuading the beloved he addresses, the possibility of subjecting persuasion to instruction would seem to require an art motivated by the love of wisdom, yet capable of overcoming the possessive particularity of erotic attachment. The claim to fulfill that standard is announced by the Platonic dialogue, in defending its status as a dialectic art of writing. While the solitary act of writing seems to suffer, even more than shared conversation, from the subjectivity of individual perspective (cf. 276d), its character as an address to a universal audience indicates its potential for transcending the particularity and immediacy of living speech (cf. 275e). By its very imitation of the convergence of persuasion and instruction in the representation of Socrates' erotic dialectics, the Platonic dialogue attempts to demonstrate the possibility of philosophic instruction independent of persuasion. The implied superiority of the product of writing over spontaneous speech in fulfilling the requirements of tekhne must depend, according to Socrates' final account of the dialectic art, upon its capacity for discriminating the complex from the simple in the adaptation of speeches to souls. When Socrates ironically proclaims his inability to compete with the written speech of Lysias, he equates its wisdom with its complexity (cf. 236b). The simplicity of the speech to which Phaedrus enthusiastically responds consists in its appearance as a direct address from the nonlover to his beloved, which Socrates reorganizes in his competing version (cf. 237b); the self-contradictory character of this pretense is uncovered only through an acknowledgment of the true complexity of the speech, based on the recognition of its character as a product of writing. If the conversation represented within a Platonic dialogue, in which a particular message is addressed to a particular character, represents the offering of simple speeches to a simple soul, the artful imitation of that conversation by the written dialogue, which addresses a universal reader, must represent complex speech for complex soul. Through the tension between the simplicity of what it represents and the complexity of its own representing, the Platonic dialogue initiates a dialectic encounter with its reader and thus demonstrates the harmonious adaptation of speeches to soul laid down as the requirement for any true tekhne of logos. The principles which constitute the basis for the adaptation of simple speeches to simple soul and complex speeches to complex soul, Socrates repeats to Phaedrus as a reminder of the proper basis for their judgment on the artfulness of the speeches on eros. Only after confirming the principles of dialectics as the necessary condition of art for both speaking and writing can Socrates return to the question of "whether it is beautiful or ugly to speak and write speeches, and how it would justly be said to be shameful or not" (277d). An evaluation of the initial reproach against Lysias's shamefulness as a speechwriter must be determined by the investigation of the standards for beautiful speaking or writing, based on the

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conditions laid dojyn for the true tekhne of iogos. Remembering Phaedrus's rhapsodic delivery of the written speech of Lysias, Socrates declares the fitting model of the shameful written work to be the recitation of the rhapsode, "spoken in order to persuade without judgment or instruction" (277e-278a). Socrates likens the slavishness of an audience moved by persuasion to suspend all critical detachment to the shamefulness of trusting in the seriousness of the written work. Illusory trust in the clarity and firmness of the written work, betraying "ignorance of the prophecy of Ammon" (cf. 275c), has the same result as "ignorance of justice and injustice and of evil and good" (cf. 277d), Jhich was introduced at the beginning of the discussion on the art of speaking as the condition for the rhetorician's deceitful manipulation of the city (cf. 260c). The shamefulness of writing arises from the belief in its clarity and firmness; its ugliness results from submission to the illusion of its nondialectic nature. Avoidance of the shamefulness of the written work requires, therefore, awareness of the playfulness of its dialectic complexity. The shamefulness of the writer who takes his own product too seriously, believing in its great worth, must be contrasted with the nobility of him "who believes that there is necessarily much playfulness in the written word, and that no written speech is worthy of great seriousness" (277e). But it is precisely the acknowledgment of its necessary playfulness which allows the written work to overcome its illusory appearance as a replacement for living thought and to realize its potential as a "reminder to the knower." 59 Socrates' final acknowledgment of "clarity and completeness and serious worth" is assigned, therefore, not to living speech in distinction to the written word, but to "that which is spoken for the sake of instruction, about the just, the beautiful, and the good, and really written in the soul" (278a). 60 Not the spoken word in opposition to the written, but the logos written in the soul, has the potential for participating in the perpetual motion of the dialectic art, which consists in the process of the generation of logoi which are the legitimate offspring of the speaker: "First, that in him, if it be found there" (278a), followed by its "children or brothers growing in a worthy manner in other souls" (278b). Speeches are not merely agents acting on the soul, nor the effects of its own action; the natural reproductive cycle of logoi seems itself to represent the ever-moving, self-moving motion which Socrates demonstrated as the ground for the immortality of soul. 61 In this final account of the dialectic logos, Socrates thus justifies the demand for the adaptation of speeches to soul repeatedly laid down as the condition for a true tekhne of logos. In light of this understanding of the relation between soul and logos, Socrates appropriately echoes the prayer at the end of his hymn to Eros by concluding his praise of the noble attitude toward speech with the prayer that he and Phaedrus may be like the man who possesses it, that they themselves may become the fitting ground for the seeds sown by serious logoi. But Socrates comes to the end of his discussion with Phaedrus by identifying it as paidia: "We have already measurably amused ourselves with speeches" (278b). 62 The Platonic Socrates thus answers his own prayer for the right attitude toward speeches; the fitting

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image of Socrates, who insists on the serious worth of the activity of dialectics, could he provided only by those written words that display the nobility of acknowledging their own necessary playfulness, thereby overcoming that externality which creates the appearance of wisdom without the reality. By questioning its own clarity and firmness, the Platonic dialogue refuses to present itself as a replacement for living thought; by transforming itself into a playful "reminder to the knower," the dialogue demonstrates its serious worth. But this overcoming of itself would constitute its self-realization only insofar as the dialogue is an imitation which determines the being toward which it points. If the paradoxical self-condemnation of writing by the written word is in fact the means of its self-defense, the "more noble" and "more serious" truth of which the dialogue is only a playful reminder could not be sought through extraneous speculation on the teaching of the historic Socrates or Plato; the being which the image of the dialogue calls forth is not the reconstruction of some historic speech or deed, but the activation of the drama of thought.63 Having established the standard for serious speech and the serious value of the playfulness of writing, Socrates concludes his private encounter with Phaedrus by commanding him to deliver the message of their discussion to the absent Lysias (278b). Phaedrus's submission without critical detachment to the misleading appearance of authority in the product of writing makes him the perfect messenger to Lysias, who is entombed in his written speech and unable to participate in the questioning of dialectic inquiry. But while Phaedrus is the fitting intermediary from Socrates to Lysias, only the conjunction of Phaedrus and Socrates can provide an adequate intermediary to the "writers in the city" from the "fountain of the nymphs and the Muses" (278c). Under the guise of "the gods of the place," Socrates again conceals the true source of the message he delivers through the written word of Plato. As recorder of the Socratic conversations, Plato would appear to act as the intermediary for Socrates; in this dialogue, an imitated Socrates suggests that he is, in fact, the intermediary for the writer Plato. Since Plato must speak through Socrates to all his fellow writers, the message to Lysias must also be addressed to Homer and the poets, and to Solon and the law-writers. While Lysias practices an art of writing moved by the love of money, the poets and the legislators seem to practice an art of writing moved by the love of honor (cf. 258b-c). 6 4 But Lysias is united with the poets and the legislators as writers who assign "clarity and completeness and serious worth" to their written work, whose foundation and final judge is the opinion of the many; the common enemy which unites the Platonic Socrates and the Socratic Plato is represented by these "writers in the city" whose pretensions and dangers are to be revealed through the message of the Muses—a message which is, in fact, nothing but the Platonic dialogue. In recognition of this unity with his imitator, the Platonic Socrates must restrict his condemnation of writing; on the basis of his own argument, Socrates is compelled to attribute to any writer "who writes with knowledge of the truth, and is able to support his writing with speech and to show by his speech the small

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worth of his writing," tlie name 'philosopher/ on the ground of the serious pursuit which underlies such writing (278c). The writer who qualifies as a lover of wisdom must be distinguished from those who "possess nothing more honorable than what they have composed or written" (278d). The poet, speechwriter, and law-writer belong together in their devotion to the product of writing itself, "turning it up and down in their leisure, adding one thing and taking away another" (276e). If Plato too must be justly addressed as poet, writer of speeches, and writer of laws, he is, nevertheless, one who writes with knowledge of the truth. Plato would seem, then, to assign to himself the title sophos, which Socrates claims is "fitting only for a god" (278d). But that knowledge of the truth which the philosophic writer possesses must be knowledge of the serious pursuit which underlies his writing; the written work which admits the ultimate seriousness of dialectics, and therefore acknowledges its own necessary playfulness, betrays knowledge of the truth that is not other than Socratic knowledge of ignorance. The message which Socrates and Phaedrus are to carry away from their conversation in the sacred grove establishes the criteria which must be met by any writer who deserves to be called a lover of wisdom. But the message that the nymphs and Muses command Socrates and Phaedrus to deliver to all who have ever engaged in the art of writing, Socrates only presents as part of the message that he himself commands Phaedrus to deliver to his friend Lysias (278b). When Socrates, apparently neglecting his own obligation as intermediary, reminds Phaedrus of his duty to act as messenger to Lysias, Phaedrus suddenly insists that Socrates do likewise for his own friend, Isocrates the beautiful (278e). 65 Phaedrus wishes to hear, not only what message Socrates will deliver to Isocrates, but also what name he would bestow on him. Whether, however, the rhetorician deserves the name 'lover of wisdom,' or whether he should be called poet, speechwriter, or law-writer, must be determined precisely by the message Socrates and Phaedrus are to deliver to all who have engaged in the practice of writing. In order to clarify this message, which Phaedrus has apparently not understood, Socrates is willing to express in these last few moments of the conversation a "prophecy" concerning the nature and the art of Isocrates. The ironic reflection of Socrates' criticism against Lysias's speech, for beginning with what the lover would say to his beloved at the end (cf. 264a), lies in Socrates' prophecy for Isocrates, at the conclusion of a conversation which directs itself toward him from the start.66 Only at the very end of the dialogue is the spotlight cast on the ghost hovering over the scene from the outset; the dialogue as a whole is thus framed by its concern with the two speechwriters, Lysias and Isocrates, who represent the ambiguous presence of any writer in his written work. T h e Platonic "complex speech for complex soul" (cf. 277c), which is con-

cerned with the general question of the philosophic significance of writing, reveals within itself, finally, a "simple speech" for one intended listener, a message which Socrates is to deliver to Plato's chief contemporary competitor in the art of writing. The conversation which establishes the demand for the adapta-

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tion of speeches to souls concludes by indicating the need for a reexamination of its logos in light of the perspective of the particular audience to whom it is addressed. This clue, offered at the conclusion of the Phaedrus, brings into focus a concealed thread constituted by the persistent echoes of Isocrates' speeches, which themselves exhibit Isocrates' concealed defense for his own art of writing. The basis for the defense of his art of writing, which Isocrates weaves into its products, is its capacity to encourage, through persuasion, the virtue of moderation, hence its ability to realize the goal of rhetoric as the necessary mediation between the phronesis of the philosopher and the practice of men of action in the political world. The ironic transformation of Isocrates' words in their Platonic echoes suggests the possibility of a "more godlike force" (279b), in light of which Isocrates' defense of his art of writing, and the understanding of philosophy that constitutes its foundation, must be judged all too human. The Platonic dialogue thus appropriately represents the message from the "gods of the place" which must be delivered to Isocrates through Socrates as intermediary. Only after establishing the unity of the Platonic Socrates and the Socratic Plato through the message to the "writers in the city" can the dialogue indicate the internal division within that unity, suggested by Socrates' concluding prayer to "Pan and the other gods of the place" (279b). Pan is not only the god who reigns outside the city, but also the god of logos, divine and human, 67 hence the fitting recipient for Socrates' prayer. Socrates prays for inner beauty and for the harmony of the outer with the inner. 68 He asks for as much gold as befits moderation; what befits philosophic moderation is the inner beauty which consists in the recognition of wisdom as wealth.69 Socrates has just distinguished the external product of writing, private or public, from that inner writing in the soul which alone possesses serious worth (278a). The written work, as an external possession, cannot be identical with the nonproductive "beautiful soul"; Socrates' contentment with inner beauty and his indifference to external possession, belong together with his disdain for the practice of writing. The closing association of inner beauty, the wealth of wisdom, and moderation, thus stands in sharp contrast with the opening association of writing, money, and greed.70 Phaedrus's opening remark betrays his entertainment, at sunrise, with the speech of Lysias in the city; his closing remark requests communion with Socrates, at sunset, in a prayer to the gods for inner beauty and for contentment with the wealth of wisdom. At the outset of his encounter with Socrates, Phaedrus expressed his desire for the ability to memorize the speech of Lysias "more than for much gold" (228a); the apparent transformation of that desire is reflected in Phaedrus's final wish to share in Socrates' prayer for wisdom. If gold is the paradigm for the object of desire which necessarily divides those who pursue it, wisdom seems to be the model for that which unites its lovers. 7 1 Phaedrus thus

appropriately, even if unwittingly, expresses his wish to share in Socrates' prayer because "friends have all in common" (279c). 72 But the friendship which Phaedrus considers the foundation for his communion with Socrates is his unconscious mirroring of Socrates' eros, as Socrates suggests in his description of the soul of

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the beloved who mistakes for friendship the streanV of yearning from the lover reflected in himself (cf. 255d-e). Phaedrus's assumption of his friendship with Socrates as the basis for his wish to share in the prayer for inner beauty may represent no real understanding of the nature of Socrates' desire, but only the eidolon of Socrates' eros, which dwells in Phaedrus's soul. Precisely by its representation of this tension, the Platonic dialogue silently points to the legitimacy of its own claim to share with Socrates in the "communion of friends." At least for himself, Socrates announces, the prayer for moderation is itself measured. Socrates prays for wisdom, not for love of wisdom, after just announcing that wisdom is possible only for a god (278d). Socrates' wisdom consists in knowledge of ignorance, yet he himself claims that his ignorance of art has been replaced by divine inspiration, and the truth of his moderation is divine madness (cf. 245b-c). Socrates' hubris is reflected in his apparent interpretation of the division between the interior and the exterior as a division between living speech and the product of writing. In establishing the charge against Socrates' hubris, Plato must transform the division between interior and exterior into one within the art of writing as a whole, determined by the nature of the particular work and the reader who responds to it. The development of inner wisdom is thus described through the metaphor of the external act of writing: logoi of serious worth are those written in the soul. And the source of the serious worth of logoi in the soul is not determined by their expression through either speech or writing, but only by the standard represented in the principles of dialectics. The principles of dialectics, which constitute the foundation for all artful speech or writing, demand knowledge of the truth of each of the beings, as an internally articulated whole and as a part of a more comprehensive whole, the same knowledge of soul with regard to the whole and its parts, and finally, knowledge of the relation between the beings and soul. But this demand for complete knowledge of the whole, together with complete knowledge of all types of human perspective on that whole, seems to be nothing but an "ideal" standard by which to measure, not only the rhetoricians' claim to teach an art of persuasion, but also the actual procedure of Socratic conversation and, further, the Platonic imitation of that conversation. The standard of the dialectic art, based on the demand for knowledge of the ideas and of soul, is determined by a principle of rest and a principle of motion, of death and of eros. The pursuit of this goal Socrates claims to follow through an "erotic dialectics," in which eros of conversation with another individual provides the path toward recovery of the vision of the beings. But the limitations of the Socratic direction are disclosed by the representation of that pursuit in the Platonic dialogue, for the objective vision of the structure of the ideas as an internally articulated whole is always obscured or distorted by the particularity of Socrates' concern with self-knowledge and with the soul of his interlocuter; despite the goal of Socrates' erotic dialectics, the self-moving motion of soul is always an obstacle to reaching the perfect fixity and stability of the beings. By representing this inadequacy, the Platonic dialogue would seem to claim the

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superiority of the opposite direction, pursued through.the nonerotic art of writing, toward the goal articulated in the principles of dialectics. Through its imitation of the voice of Socrates, however, the Platonic dialogue acknowledges its own limitations, for the perfect fixity of the written word seems to exclude the possibility of living thought; the illusory objectivity of the product of writing seems to represent an obstacle to the particularity of the unique perspective of each reader, and the dead, written word seems incapable of incorporating the self-moving motion of soul. The principle of motion that governs Socrates' erotic dialectics and the principle of rest that governs the art of writing seem equally to stand in the way of the goal of the dialectic art. But access to this goal is in fact provided neither by participation in the spontaneity of Socrates' living conversation, nor by a "dead" written treatise analyzing the structure of the beings as an internally articulated whole; these two opposing poles are, rather, nothing but the implications suggested by one unitary representation: the conversation of the Platonic Socrates, who appears only as an image in the dialogue, and is therefore one with the written work of Plato, which constitutes that image. The ideal meeting point defined by the principles of dialectics, as the convergence of the two paths of eros and death, of living speech and writing, is in fact represented by the Platonic dialogue itself. The Platonic defense of dialectic writing against Socrates' apparent commitment to the eros of living speech is established through the "internalizable" written logoi which point to the dangers of the written word, and thus portray a Socrates who must, indeed, vindicate the art through which his love of wisdom is imitated.

EXCURSUS W R I T I N G LIKE THE PAINTING OF LIVING ANIMALS

For writing certainly has this terrible power, Phaedrus, as if truly like the painting of living animals. For the offspring of that stand forth like living animals, but if someone were to question them, they maintain a solemn silence. And it is the same with logoi; you might opine that they speak as if having intelligence, but if someone were to question them, wishing to understand what is spoken, they always signify one and the same thing. (275d)

While the historical problem of how accurately Plato understood Egyptian hieroglyphic writing remains an open question, the symbolic significance which he attaches to it as the figurative representation of an idea seems to be suggested by the role it plays in illuminating the philosophic issue under consideration in the Phaedrus. Socrates reports an "Egyptian story" which credits the god Theuth

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with the discovery of the grammata, while attributing to the god Thamuz the condemnation of this discovery. But Socrates does not report in this "Egyptian story" the nature of the grammata which have been discovered and condemned, although he himself offers an interpretation in relation to zoographia—the painting of animal figures (275d). While grammata may seem to refer to the alphabetic letters, the word is in fact generally used to denote any written notation, including drawings or musical notes. When Herodotus wishes to specify the Phoenician alphabet, he speaks of the letters as kadmeia grammata (Histories 4.59), while other Greek writers use the word to specify hieroglypkika grammata (cf. Clement of Alexandria Stromata 5.4). In the Philebus, Socrates introduces the art of alphabetization as a model of the path he himself has always tried to follow; this path, which consists of the division of the infinite into a determinate multiplicity of kinds, appears to Socrates to be a gift from gods to men, tossed down through "some kind of Prometheus" (16c). In order to clarify his example, Socrates describes the discovery of the alphabet, based on the observation of the differentiation of the infinite stream of sound into the classes of vowel sounds, sonants, and mutes, every class being divided into a multiplicity of individual parts, each given the name of a single letter, and all bound together as one through the single art of grammatike; to the god or godlike man who discovered this art an "Egyptian logos" gives the name "Theuth" (18b-c). Without confirming this claim of the "Egyptian logos," Socrates is concerned to establish the significance of the alphabet as a model for division into kinds, based on the representation of sound (the syllable), through the combination of a phenomenal element (the vowel) and the abstraction of a nonphenomenal element (the consonant), rendered determinate through an image (the name of the letter) which makes all elements appear homogenous. With these ambiguous references in the dialogues to the legendary discovery of the Egyptian Theuth, Plato seems to speculatively establish the symbolic significance of hieroglyphic writing by contrast with the significance of the alphabet, while carefully refraining from commitment to any claim which would either confirm or deny his recognition of the alphabetic element in the Egyptian system of writing. That Plato may have been aware of the eventual alphabetization of Egyptian writing is not impossible (see Robert Eisler-Feldafing, "Platon und das aegyptische Alphabet," p. 9). Iamblichus reports that Pythagoras, Plato, Democritus, Eudoxus, and many other ancient Greeks taught "what is fitting" about the sacred writing of Egypt (De Mysteriis 1.1, in Fontes historiae religionis aegyptiacae, ed. Theodor Hopfner, p. 497). But it seems doubtful that the hieroglyphic system of writing was clearly understood in antiquity outside the Egyptian temples; at least no completely accurate description seems to exist in Greek literature (see Liselotte Dieckmann, Hieroglyphics: History of a Literary Symbol, pp. 4 f f . ) .

Egyptian hieroglyphics, deciphered by Champollion after the discovery of the Rosetta stone in 1799, in fact consist of a mixture of ideograms and phonograms,

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representing either whole words or single sounds, often using an ideogram affixed to a phonogram, or having the same symbol stand for a word or for a single letter. The combination of pictorial and verbal symbols was further supplemented by syllabic signs as well as explanatory determinatives. The oldest hieroglyphic writing consists of a collection of pictorial symbols, whose significance was probably preserved by a small, conservative caste of priests; the oldest evidence of this writing was discovered on stone pallettes south of Thebes in upper Egypt, and is dated from around 3000 B.C., although hieroglyphics were still in use in the fourth century A.D. This original hieroglyphic writing was first supplemented by the hieratic, a more cursive version representing the same language, and then by the more simplified and more conventional demotic script, probably around the seventh century B.C. Finally, around the second century B.C., the demotic script was replaced by coptic, in which the Egyptian language was represented by Greek alphabetic letters. Before then, the advantages of an alphabetic system were apparently not appreciated by the Egyptians, for the hieroglyphic symbols, even when coming close to such a system, were never used consistently in alphabetic fashion (see Sir Alan Henderson Gardiner, "Writing and Literacy," in Legacy of Egypt, ed. J. R. Harris, pp. 6 ff.). The ambiguity of Plato's references to Egyptian hieroglyphics seems to be supported by a long tradition of Greek writers from Herodotus through Diodorus Siculus, Clement of Alexandria, Plutarch, and Plotinus. Even when these writers seem to be aware of the phonetic element in Egyptian writing, they tend to concentrate, perhaps for the sake of distinguishing Egyptian from Greek writing, on the importance of the ideogram. Herodotus remarks that the Egyptians use two systems of writing, the sacred and the demotic, without defining their characteristics; Herodotus finds the opposition to other cultures exhibited by so many of the Egyptian customs to be reflected in their system of writing, for they write, in opposition to the Greeks, from right to left, although they claim their writing is more "dexterous" (histories 11.36). Diodorus Siculus reports that the Egyptian priests teach their sons two kinds of writing, the hieroglyphic and that which is used for more general instruction (Library of History 1.81). Like Herodotus, he recognizes no distinction between hieroglyphic and hieratic, but classes both together in opposition to demotic. He describes the hieroglyphics as letters whose forms take the "shapes of animals and members of the human body and tools.. . . such writing, rather than expressing the intended logos by means of syllables joined together relies on the significance of the object copied and its metaphorical meaning learned by memory" (III.4). Plutarch, writing before 120 A.D,, by which time demotic was long in use, describes the status of pictorial metaphors in hieroglyphic writing through an analogy with the figurative sayings of the Pythagoreans, and thus seems to ignore the phonetic element in Egyptian writing ( O f l s i s and Osiris 1.10). In another context, however, he mentions their use of twenty-five grammata, which may perhaps imply recognition of an alphabetic system (IV. 56). A better articulated description of Egyptian writing, which helps to account for

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the ambiguity of -the ®reek tradition; is provided^by C l e m e n t of Alexandria, writing in the second century A. D. ; " T h e men of learning among the Egyptians first of all learned the epistolographic, and second the hieratic method of writing, which the sacred scribes use, and then, last of all, the hieroglyphic, of which one sort, the literal, is expressed in letters, and the other is symbolic. And o f the symbolic, one kind proceeds by literal imitation, but another is figurative, and a third is allegorical, speaking in enigmas" ( S t r o m a t a V . 4 . 2 0 ) . T h e limitations of hieroglyphic writing as understood through the Greek tradition are expressed by Ammianus Marcellinus, writing in the fourth century A.D. We see engraved everywhere in Egypt innumerable shapes and forms called hieroglyphics, expressing the ancient records of primordial wisdom. Carving many kinds of birds and beasts of a strange world, so that the memory of tradition may be published to succeeding ages, they herald the wishes of kings, fulfilled or simply promised. For not as nowadays did the ancient Egyptians write a set and easily learned number of letters to express whatever the human mind might conceive, but one character stood for a single name or word, and sometimes signified an entire thought. (Res gestae XCI1.4.8-11, in Fontes historiae religiones aegyptiacae, p. 547) Plotinus, who uses the model of Egyptian hieroglyphics as an image for his own conception of "Platonic ideas," describes the isolated emblem which conveys nondiscursive knowledge: It seems to me that the Egyptian wise men, either working by right reasoning or spontaneously, when they desired to represent things through wisdom, did not use letters descriptive of words or sentences, imitating the sounds and pronunciation of propositions, but drew pictures, and carved one picture for each thing in their temples, thus making manifest the description of that thing. Thus each picture was a kind of understanding and wisdom and substance and given all at once, and not discursive reasoning and deliberation. (Ennead V.8) In a gloss on this passage, the fifteenth-century translator of Plotinus, Marsilio Ficino, elaborates the "neo-PI atonic" conception of the Egyptian hieroglyphics: The Egyptian priests, when they wished to signify divine things, did not use letters,, but whole figures of plants, trees, and animals; for God doubtless has a knowledge of things which is not complex discursive thought about its subject, but is, as it were, the simple and steadfast form of it. Your thought of time, for instance, is manifold and mobile, maintaining that time is speedy and by a sort of revolution joins the beginning to the end. It teaches prudence, produces much, and destroys it again. The Egyptians comprehend this whole discourse in one stable image, painting a winged serpent, holding its tail in its mouth. (The Hieroglyphics ofHorapollo, trans. George Boas, p. 28) Nor does the neo-Platonic tradition mark the end of the interpretation of the C k: . . . „ „ — il u -

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symbol. After first establishing that the "first nations thought in poetic characters, spoke in fables, and wrote in hieroglyphics," Vico attributes to the Egyptians the recognition of three stages of writing, corresponding to the three ages of gods, heroes, and men: ideographic or hieroglyphic writing, born spontaneously without convention, corresponding to savage hunting; heroic or symbolic writing, using conventional signs, corresponding to barbarism and agriculture; and alphabetic writing, a system of images of images, corresponding to the labor of civilization. In order to show that the Greeks agreed with the Egyptians on this order of development, Vico examines several "golden" passages in the Iliad, and interprets Homer's references to the distinction between divine and human language. In the attempt to establish that all the first nations by common natural necessity "spoke in hieroglyphics," Vico hopes to uproot the false opinion held by "some Egyptians," that hieroglyphics were invented by the philosophers to conceal their mysteries of lofty esoteric wisdom (See Giambattista Vico, The New Science, trans. Thomas Bergin and Max Fisch, pp. 138-42). The order of development elaborated by Vico seems to be taken up by Rousseau, who describes the evolution of the art of writing through a threefold division corresponding to three stages "according to which one can consider men gathered into a nation." The depicting of objects is appropriate to a savage people, signs of words and propositions to a barbaric people, and the alphabet to civilized peoples. The primitive way of writing was not to represent sounds but objects themselves, whether directly, as with the Mexicans, or by allegorical imagery, or as the Egyptians did, in still other ways.... The second way is to represent words and propositions by conventional characters. That can be done only when a language is completely formed and an entire people is united by common laws.. . . The third way is to break down the spoken voice into a given number of elementary parts, either vocal or imaginable. This way of writing, which is ours, must have been invented by commercial peoples. (Jean Jacques Rousseau, "On Script," in Essay on the Origin of Languages, trans. John H. Moran, p. 17)

The superiority of alphabetic writing, as a transcription of vocal speech, to hieroglyphic writing, based on a presupposed analysis of representations, is defended by Hegel in light of a consideration of their distinct conceptions of the 'sign.' While hieroglyphic writing uses spatial figures to designate ideas, alphabetic writing uses its symbols to designate vocal notes, which are already signs. In contrast with the hieroglyphic system, where the sign remains on the level of sensible-spatial intuition, the alphabetic system discovers the sign in the element of temporalization; in its respect for the spoken language, the alphabet remains the most open to the development of tradition, while only the most stationary civilization could fittingly employ a hieroglyphic system of writing. At the same time, the analysis of ideas expressed in hieroglyphics appears to be possible in the most various and divergent ways, so that the relation of concrete mental ideas to one another must necessarily be tangled and perplexed. The hieroglyphic sys-

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possession of mental culture," consists in a deaf reading and a dumb writing, whereas alphabetic writing represents the "movement of spirit in relation to its own inferiority" and is therefore "in and for itself the most intelligible." "What has been said shows the inestimable and not sufficiently appreciated educational value of learning to read and write an alphabetic character. It leads the mind from the sensible concrete image to attend to the more formal structure of the vocal word and its abstract elements, and contributes much to give stability and independence to the inward realm of mental life" (Hegel, Philosophy of Mind, trans. William Wallace, par. 459). For an interpretation of Hegel's analysis of the relation between alphabetic and hieroglyphic writing, see Jacques Derrida, "Le Puits et la Pyramide: Introduction a la Semiologie de Hegel," in Marges de la Philosophie. The tradition established by the Greek writers—and it seems that Plato must be included among them—thus seems to be carried on, not only by the neoPlatonists and Renaissance writers, but by the modern philosophers as well, who find, by contrasting the abstraction of alphabetic writing with the symbolic interpretation of Egyptian hieroglyphics, a fitting model for contrasting ways of thought.

Appendix ISOCRATES THE BEAUTIFUL

Isocrates is young yet, Phaedrus, but I am willing to speak my prophecy for him.... He seems to be better in his nature than that indicated by the speeches of Lysias, and it is mixed with a more noble character; so there would be nothing wonderful if, as he grows older, he should so excel in the case of the speeches he is now attempting that he would show all those who have ever engaged in speeches to be no more than children; and further, I would not be surprised if this were not sufficient for him, but a more godlike force would lead him to greater things; for, by nature, my friend, there is some kind of philosophy in the mind of the man." (279a~b)

W W I T H I N THE DRAMA, PHAEDRUS IS USED BY SOCRATES AS A NECESSARY MES-

senger to his contemporary Lysias, "cleverest writer of the day," but it is the particular recipient of Socrates' message whom Plato addresses as the cleverest writer of his day.1 Socrates addresses the Platonic message to the writer Lysias through an intermediary who wavers between love of both and is unable to distinguish them (cf. 237b); in and through the representation of Socrates' encounter with that intermediary, Plato confronts his own contemporary writer who "wavers on the border of philosophy and politics, believing himself the wisest of men," who participates "moderately in philosophy and moderately in politics, sharing in both as much as necessary, free from the risks and struggles to gather the fruits of wisdom" (Euthydemus 205c-d). 2 When Phaedrus raises the question of what Isocrates is to be called, Socrates responds apologetically (278e); although Socrates knows that Isocrates already surpasses the speeches of Lysias,3 he is not yet able to assign him a name, "for he is young yet" (Phaedrus 279a). The Platonic Socrates ironically predicts Isocrates' own tendency to rely on the excuse of old age as a justification for any inadequacies in a speech he is about to deliver, for the employment of speech rather than action, and for the use of writing rather than live conversation.4 While Isocrates seeks to excuse his deficiencies through a plea for his listeners' sympathy with the weakening powers of old age, the Platonic Socrates blames the nonfulfillment of Isocrates' potential on his youth. The irony of Socrates' prophecy for the future of Isocrates is determined by its context in a product of writing addressed to those who live in that future and know the outcome which Socrates claims to foresee.5 The ambiguous status of the written work as an imitation is thus revealed by the disparity in time between the conversation as represented and the product of writing which represents it, for the apparent

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present of the written toiitation is indeed the past, and the apparent future is the present. Beneath the question of temporal development which Socrates seems to use as a pretext, lies the real issue concerning the essential ambiguity of Isocrates' nature and of his work. Isocrates himself seems to deny his identification as poet, speechwriter, or law-writer, while he presents his "education" as devotion to philosophy.6 It is the significance which Isocrates attaches to the name 'philosophy,' insofar as it determines the value of his art of writing, which forms the center of the struggle that Plato conducts against him in the Phaedrus. The clue to that struggle lies in Socrates' demand for the philosophic recognition of writing as paidia, the very demand which Isocrates condemns in the defense of his own philosophy.7 On the basis of his knowledge of Isocrates' "superior nature," Socrates predicts that "he will so surpass his present speeches that all those now concerned with speeches will seem no more than children" (279b). Socrates' evaluation is in fact an echo of Isocrates' own claims: in the first of his political speeches, written to be delivered at the pan-Hellenic gathering in Olympia, Isocrates expresses his hope to "rise so far above all the sophists who have treated the same theme that it will seem as if no word had ever been spoken about these matters" (Panegyricus 4). The sophists whom Isocrates hopes to surpass must be Lysias and Gorgias, who had previously treated the theme of pan-Hellenic unity in their speeches for the Olympic festivals.8 Immediately following his expressed desire to surpass his competitors, Isocrates identifies his Olympic speech as "the most beautiful of speeches, dealing with the greatest of happenings, which, while displaying the ability of the speaker, brings the most benefit to its listeners" (Panegyricus 5). As if he were offering Isocrates a direct response to this claim, Socrates continues his prophecy with a prediction of the inadequacy Isocrates will experience with such speech, being led by "a more godlike force" (279b). Isocrates finds the most beautiful speeches to be those concerned with Greek political unity against the barbarians; the Platonic Socrates suggests, from the divine perspective of his devotion to dialectics, that such a standard lies merely in the plane of human opinion. The motif of the division between divine and human, which appeared in the contrast of living speech and the art of writing, thus emerges as the underlying theme of Plato's dialogue with Isocrates. Isocrates identifies philosophy with the education he offers in the art of speaking, insofar as it provides the most expedient path to that phronesis which characterizes the successful philosopher (Antidosis 271). Since phronesis alone can recognize the course of "right conduct in man and citizen," it is responsible for raising the state of man above that of the animals (A ntidosis 294). The power of persuasion, which exhibits this philosophic phronesis, enables men to "come together and found cities, make laws, and invent arts" (Antidosis 254). For Isocrates, man, not god, is "the measure," Unlike those who "exhort their followers to a kind of virtue and phronesis of which all others are ignorant and

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which is disputed even among themselves," Isocrates commends a wisdom "recognized by all," which will "render the Athenians themselves prosperous, and deliver the rest of Hellas from their present evils" (Antidosis 84-85). The philosophy which Isocrates teaches through his art of speaking carries a specific and practical political message: "philosophy, which educates us for public affairs and makes us gentle toward each other," is the particular gift of Athens to the rest of the world (Panegyricus 47). The Athenians are superior to all others, not in waging war or in preserving laws, "but in being educated toward phronesis and logos, those qualities which raise man above the animals and the Hellenes above the barbarians" (Antidosis 294). Athens alone offers, for the education of the potential rhetorician, "the greatest contests of speeches, practical experience, moderation of speech, flexibility of mind, and love of letters"; Athens has become a "teacher for all who are able to speak or to educate" (.Antidosis 296), Athens is worthy of praise because she fosters the conditions for the development of the very qualities which are honored in and through the speeches written by Isocrates; the value of these philosophic speeches; which are "honored and esteemed in all associations and for all time" (Antidosis 48), is in fact determined by their practical judgment on the contemporary political situation. Athens is to be upheld as the leader of a pan-Hellenic union because Athens represents philosophy, but philosophy is to be valued because it exhibits the right path for recognition of "the true interest of Athens and of the rest of the Hellenes" (Panathenaicus 2). Plato judges Isocrates in his pursuit of a less than godlike impulse; but Isocrates questions the wisdom of that impulse, assuming that, by nature, all men do not desire to know.9 Since the philosopher is distinguished from the many by his self-conscious desire to understand the good for man, 10 the gap between the philosopher and the many points to the need for the art of speaking. It is the rhetorical art which encourages the acceptance of the philosopher's phronesis by the city; this mediating function benefits the philosopher as well as the city. The virtue of moderation, both assumed and produced by the art of persuasion, represents Isocrates' solution to the gap between the theoretical value of philosophy and the actual practices of the city. 11 The intention of the rhetorical art in providing the model for this virtue is identical with the political intention of philosophy. The union of rhetoric and philosophy, in providing the model for the virtue of moderation, Isocrates upholds as the ultimate justification for his education; that education necessarily establishes the superiority of human phronesis to any form of madness.12 In contrast with Socrates' divine restriction to living speech, Plato acknowledges the human perspective of his commitment to writing; but in contrast with the human art of Isocrates, Plato associates his dialectic art of writing with Socrates' "divine madness." As a valid motivation for his own practice of writing, Isocrates defends that competition and rivalry for human honor which Socrates described as the motivation of those less than godlike souls, trampling on and colliding with each other, striving to constantly pass each other, beneath the surface of the heavens

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(cf. Phaedrus 24.8b). Competition in the effort persuasion is necessary and justified, Isocrates argues, since the final court of judgment is not divine truth but human opinion. 14 Without any pretense of investigating "the truth about the nature of soul divine and human," Isocrates announces that "everyone does everything that he does for the sake of pleasures, or gain, or honor, for no desire outside these comes into being for men" (Antidosis 21). In his Olympic oration, Isocrates defends his competition with previous rhetoricians on the basis of the capacity of speech to allow for a variety of arrangements of the same argument. Because the truth is itself helpless, the possibility of persuasion lies in the arrangement "giving us the power to make clear to each other whatever we desire" (Nicocles 5). Isocrates analyzes this capacity in terms of the power of speech "to make the great small and the small great, to recount the old things in a new way or the new occurrences in an old way" (Panegyricus 8). This very claim, which Socrates finally assigns to the teachers of Isocrates, Gorgias and Tisias (cf. Phaedrus 267b), 15 he first introduced as the general basis for defining the whole of rhetoric as an "art of contention" (cf. 261b). Isocrates' concern with competition is reflected in his interpretation of the rhetorical principle distinguishing the argument of a speech from its arrangement, insofar as he insists on the higher priority of demonstrating the particular talent of a speaker or writer over demonstrating what may be true, hence held in common. 16 In light of this principle, Isocrates bases his competition with the rhetoricians and "eristics" on a division between those speeches concerned with trivial subjects, where it is easy to say something original, and those concerned with the "good and the beautiful", where it is difficult to "reach the heights of greatness" (Helen 12). 17 In the playful speeches of the "eristics," which "follow one road" and are "easy to find, to learn, and to imitate," the discovery alone gives credit to the speaker; but in "trustworthy speeches of general importance," which are "discovered in many forms, dependent upon appropriate timing, and of difficult composition," the speaker's success must be accomplished through the art of arrangement (Helen 12). In response to the competition which Phaedrus establishes, demanding a speech no shorter and completely different from that of Lysias, Socrates makes a distinction between "necessary arguments," in which only the arrangement is to be praised, and those which are not necessary, in which the discovery as well as the arrangement may be worthy of praise (Phaedrus 236a). It is, then, Isocrates' rhetorical principle which lies beneath the competition with Lysias which Socrates enacts in delivering his speeches on eros. But the difference between "serious subjects" and "necessary arguments" marks the difference between Isocrates' and Plato's respective self-reflection on their own projects. If common human opinion determines, for Isocrates, the general importance of serious speeches, it can only be the application of the "two ideas" of collection and division that determines, for Plato, the necessary argument as well as its possible arrangements. The Platonic understanding of the relation between necessary

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argument and arrangement is demonstrated by the development of the "love as madness" argument through the rearrangements of the three love speeches. If the persuasive power of each arrangement of this necessary argument rests on the presentation of a part as if it were itself the whole, the artful capacity for such presentation is itself dependent upon recognition of the whole which is to be suppressed in each speech taken separately. Recognition of the relation between necessary argument and possible arrangement is thus the sign of the true art of speaking, based on the principles of dialectics. Through this hidden transformation of Isocrates' rhetorical principle concerning the artful arrangements of a necessary argument, Plato points to the practice of dialectics as that serious pursuit which alone renders speech or writing worthy of the name "philosophy." The distinction between Isocrates' human identification of philosophy with the practical affairs of the city, and Plato's "divine" identification of philosophy with the pursuit of dialectics is reflected in their respective understanding of the function of art. The ironic clue for this reflection lies in Socrates' testimony to Isocrates' superiority on the basis of his "more noble nature" and the presence of "some kind of philosophy by nature in the mind of the man" (cf. Phaedrus 279b). Since the tension between art and nature provides the focus of his struggle with Isocrates, Plato hides his attack beneath Socrates' investigation of the evidence of the power of art in the principles of the rhetoricians. If Isocrates claims to impart instruction in the art of speaking, he explicitly admits that it is the mere preliminaries which he teaches; he offers no "science" for learning individual timing and judgment, the composition of the work as a whole, and the ends toward which it is applied.18 All of the decisive factors for the power of persuasion belong to the province of natural ability and practice;59 precisely that power of the art which can only be supplied by a "shrewd and courageous soul" 20 Isocrates excludes from the possibility of education. The echo of Isocrates' admission resounds in Socrates' establishment of the conditions for the "truly rhetorical art" (cf. Phaedrus 269d). Socrates' condemnation of the writers 'on the art of speaking, uttered in the voice of the "mellifluous Adrastus or Pericles," is based on a recognition of the necessary foundation of tekhne in the analysis of whole and part. The refinements of rhetoric which Phaedrus admires must be submitted to these master rhetoricians, who counsel sympathy rather than harshness for those who believe that knowledge of the preliminaries constitutes the art of rhetoric, assigning small value to "the persuasive use of these and to the composition of the whole" (269c). The response of these artful rhetoricians is couched in the words of Isocrates,21 but Socrates' imitation of Isocrates ironically places responsibility for the rhetoricians' inability to define the nature of rhetoric on their ignorance of dialectics. While Isocrates condemns, on the one hand, the "writers of the so-called arts" who falsely claim to "teach an art of political speeches" without attributing any power to practical experience or natural ability (Against the Sophists 9), he ridicules, on the other hand, the "eristics" who "waste their time contending about useless matters," and "claim to teach an exact science of the good life for

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man" (Against the Sqphists 3). Isocrates acknowledges, at the end of his career, that the teachers of eristic "do benefit their students, though not as much as they profess" (Antidosis 261). Isocrates takes his stand with those "who believe this training is of no use in practical life," but he allows for its value as an exercise in sharpening the mind for subjects "more serious and of greater worth" (Antidosis 265). The practice of dialectics, to which Plato assigns the unique status of serious worth, Isocrates calls mere preparation, "gymnastics of the mind," unwilling to give the name 'philosophy' to "training which is of no help to us in the present either in speech or in action" (Antidosis 266). In attacking those who believe in philosophy as an exact science, Isocrates chooses to examine the "art of letters" as a potential model for the art of speaking: "I would have preferred over much gold that philosophy had such power" (Against the Sophists l l ) . 2 2 In contrast with the fixity of the letters, Isocrates points to the constantly changing conditions for effective speech, requiring fitness for the occasion, appropriate style, and originality (Against the Sophists 13). 23 It is, of course, the acknowledgment of these very conditions which compels Socrates to insist on the "adaptation of speeches to souls" as the requirement for the rhetorical art (cf. Phaedrus 271a, 271d, 273d, 277b-c). With the same recognition of that immediacy and particularity which seem to make any techne of logos impossible, Isocrates defends, as the necessary preparation for effective speech, the primary importance of natural ability, followed by the usefulness of "empirical exercise," only slightly improved by education (Against the Sophists 15). Transforming Isocrates' formula, Socrates lays down as the conditions for the "truly rhetorical art" natural ability, knowledge, and practice (Phaedrus 269d); through Socrates' slight addition of "knowledge," Plato indicates his judgment on Isocrates' whole education. The models which Socrates chooses for the art of speaking are, nevertheless, medicine, tragedy, and music (cf. Phaedrus 268b-269b), where the composition of elements into a harmonious whole requires, besides knowledge, experience and judgment of "what is fitting." Not the grammatical art, but the arts of healing, poetry, and music, illuminate the relation between the claim of rhetoric to be an art and its purpose of "leading souls with words." The stability of structure exemplified by the alphabet as the subject of the grammatical art seems to be an impossible model for an art of speaking concerned with the "evermoving motion" of soul. While Plato seems, then, to indicate his agreement with Isocrates on the impossibility of the grammatical paradigm for the art of speaking, he maintains, at the same time, its desirability as the necessary standard for evaluating the claims of any tekhne; only in light of such a standard, which would allow for the recognition of human limitations, does the art of persuasion display its necessary incompleteness (cf. Phaedrus 269d). The Platonic echo of Isocrates' contrast between the fixity of the grammatical art and the constantly changing conditions for persuasive speech emerges in Socrates' explicit discussion with Phaedrus on the nature of the written word. The very qualities which Isocrates demands for the application of the

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grammatical paradigm, Socrates sets forth as the deficiencies of the written word (cf. 275d-e). But Socrates does not preclude the possibility of an art of writing which might benefit from the value of those qualities while overcoming their potential dangers, thus fulfilling the conditions which justify the claim to the status of an art. The echoes in the Phaedrus of Isocrates' arguments concerning the inadequacy of the alphabet as a model for the art of speaking thus manifest Plato's defense for the activity they share. 24 For Isocrates, in contrast, the inadequacy of the grammatical paradigm only serves as the basis for concluding the impossibility of any exact knowledge, and it is precisely that impossibility which serves as the ground for his vindication of his own art of writing. Since Isocrates' very rejection of knowledge of the letters as a paradigm for the art of speaking is expressed through the products of his writing, he too must weave the defense for his practice into its products. But in his letters to men of action, urging them to policies based on his own prudent judgment, and in his political speeches offered to the assembly as counsels for decision, Isocrates frequently begins with a condemnation of written speech. His accusation that writing is inadequate in replacing spontaneous conversation, is unable to defend itself, and is nonresponsive to changing conditions, are echoed in Socrates' reproaches against the dangers of the written word. Isocrates' defense of his art of writing, no less than Plato's, must be carried out through the implications concealed in a written condemnation of the written word. In his letter To Philip Isocrates establishes a distinction between oral speeches and those which are read, on the basis of their power of persuasion; while all men assume the former to be "serious and urgent," they believe the latter to be written for "display and personal gain." The cause of this belief is the nature of the written work, which is "robbed of opinions of speech and of voice," as well as of "changes in delivery and of timeliness, and of interest in the matter, with no aids for content and persuasion, but stripped of all these accessories, naked, being read by someone unpersuasively with no feeling, as though doing arithmetic" (To Philip 25). With this covert praise for the objectivity of writing, Isocrates recommends that Philip set aside all the difficulties mentioned and, having before him only the "actual facts," examine the arguments one by one, "with reason and philosophy," avoiding the opinions of the many. In his letter To Dionysius Isocrates excuses his reliance on a written letter because of his advancing age, admitting that it is better to come in person, not only because it is easier to make things clear in person and because everyone trusts more in what is spoken than in what is written, "listening to the former as to propositions and to the latter as to products of poets," but further, because the absence o f the writer provides n o defender for those statements which are not understood or not believed (To Dionysius 1). Again, however, Isocrates concludes the introduction with the advice that Dionysius disregard these difficulties and direct his attention to' the serious content o f the problems themselves.

Isocrates begins his first major political speech with the distinction between men of action, who have the power to make decisions and determine history, and

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those skilled in speegh, who, for the most part, "waste their1 time on trivial matters. But beneath this distinction Isocrates offers the description of deeds as common to all, in contrast with the ability to make use of these deeds at the right time in beautiful speeches, as the particular gift of the wise (Panegyricus 9). Such skill in speech, when expressed through the product of writing, renders its possessors "not only men of power in their own cities, but also honored in others" (Panegyricus 50). Isocrates concludes the speech with the recommendation that those writers who now waste their time on trivial matters should follow his own example, "writing speeches which will deliver their authors from present distress and win for them the credit of bringing to pass great blessings for the rest of the world" ( 1 8 9 ) . " In a written speech which assumes the guise of a live courtroom trial, Isocrates defends his own life and his work against the charge that he is guilty of corrupting his pupils by teaching them to make the worse argument appear the better, contrary to justice. 26 Isocrates introduces the speech by describing the difficulty of the enterprise facing him: "having to grasp as a whole such an extent of ideas, to harmonize and bring together so many kinds of speeches, to make smooth connections and to make all the parts consistent" (Antidosis 11). That such a project is only possible for the art of writing Isocrates confirms in his recommendation that the reader not try to run through the whole at once, that is, not submit uncritically to its appearance as a spontaneous communication. Isocrates begins his defense with the same criticism that Socrates urges against the revilers of Lysias (cf. Phaedrus 258c): he is condemned for his speechwriting by those who make use of the same activity to express their condemnation (Antidosis 14). While Isocrates appears to deny the value of writing by adopting the disguise of living speech, his introduction to the speech testifies to his belief in the power of the written word "to create a true image of my life and my mind, to make known the truth about me to my condemners, and to leave behind for posterity a monument more beautiful than statues of bronze" (Antidosis 6). Supporting the tacit implications of his political speeches, Isocrates presents the strongest defense for his activity of writing in his epideictic speeches, whose underlying theme consists in reflection on their own nature as products of writing. It is in these speeches of display, dealing directly with the problem of rhetoric, that Isocrates sets forth the justification for writing as a necessary political act. 27 The role of the art of rhetoric, as a necessary mediation in the conflict between philosophy and the city, must be effected through the activity of writing, which "reaches through all the cities of Hellas" (Evagoras 74). By creating an immortal image of a noble character which young men will wish to imitate, the product of writing leads to "the study of philosophy" (Evagoras 76). If the written work has the power to lead the citizen to philosophy, it possesses the capacity, at the same time, to bring philosophy to the city. The political usefulness of philosophic phronesis depends upon its capacity for transcending the sphere of the private, which is possible only through the public address of the written word. But the political effectiveness of philosophic prudence also requires the discre-

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tion of selectivity in its address. Both philosophy and rhetoric share the conflict between the necessity of universal publicity and the desire for individualized discretion; only the art of writing, with its capacity for simultaneously revealing and concealing, can resolve this inevitable tension (cf. Busiris 2). As a model for the political usefulness of the philosophic product of writing, Isocrates presents his eulogy of Evagoras; the purpose of the rhetorical exercise of praising a great man is to provide the necessary vehicle for persuading young men to practice philosophy (Evagoras 76). It is not Evagoras's life but Isocrates' product of writing which is able to accomplish this, transforming one who is "mortal by birth" through an "immortal memory" (71). Isocrates thus reveals the real object of praise to be the written speech itself: I think that likenesses of bodies are beautiful memorials, but more worthy are those of deeds and thoughts, which are to be observed only in speeches composed by art. I prefer these first, knowing that beautiful and good men want to be magnified not for beauty of the body, but desire to be honored for that of deeds and wisdom; then, statues necessarily remain where they are set up, but speeches are carried all over Hellas and, having been spread among gatherings of reasonable men, are welcomed by those who are more to be esteemed than all others; finally, no one can make the nature of the body like molded figures and paintings, but the habits of others and the thoughts which arc ensouled in words, it is easy to imitate for those not choosing to be idle but desiring to be good. (74)

In a speech which is introduced as not serious, and therefore "not calling for a dignified style" (Busiris 9), Isocrates provides another eulogy as a model for the power of the written word. In the content of this eulogy, Busiris, king of Egypt, is praised for his accomplishments in establishing laws and political organization, effected through the division of his subjects into classes of priests, soldiers, and artisans, a division which supplies the best model for government as well as for the discussions of philosophers (17). Busiris is finally praised for his assignment of the older and wiser men as rulers, of the younger as students of astronomy, arithmetic, and geometry, those subjects considered by some to be most conducive to virtue (22). Isocrates indicates the significance of this playful rhetorical exercise—which seems to contradict his customary attack against those who believe philosophy can be based on real knowledge—only through its context in a written letter. The letter which frames Isocrates' speech on Busiris is addressed to the rhetorician Polycrates, who must be shown a fitting model for a eulogy in place of his own self-defeating attempt; Polycrates is therefore criticized for his praise of Busiris, which is in fact a condemnation, and for his condemnation of Socrates, which is in fact a commendation. It is not the mere absurdity, but the danger of such exercises which necessitates Isocrates' correction, insofar as "phi-

losophy, which is already hated, would be hated even more because of such speeches" (49). It is, then, through the fiction of this written letter that Isocrates illuminates the true significance of his "playful" speech: the eulogy of Busiris is, in fact, a

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praise of Socrates, wfth the underlying purpose df making philosophy acceptable to the many. 28 Isocrates begins this letter with the claim that he conceals his views from everyone but his intended audience (2); through his art of writing Isocrates claims to possess the very ability that Socrates denies to the written word in his apparent condemnation at the conclusion of the Phaedrus (cf. 275e). Isocrates warns his reader of his writing's power to conceal the true meaning intended for the few beneath the beautiful surface intended for the many. Beyond the activities of mathematical studies and political leadership, it is the activity of writing on which Isocrates bestows the highest honor, and the complexity of the written word which is praised as the condition for fulfilling the true function of rhetoric in reconciling philosophy and the city. The power of the written word is again covertly praised in Isocrates' Helen, his eulogy of "the beautiful." Isocrates introduces his eulogy of Helen with a discussion of his own art of speaking, condemning those who "are pleased to set up some abstract and self-contradictory subject, then discuss it in a reasonable way," such as "those who try to prove the identity of courage, wisdom, and justice— that they are not separate natural faculties but forms of one knowledge" (1). He recommends that "those who waste their time in such useless contending ought to give this up and pursue the truth, instructing their students in the practical affairs of the city and training to expertise," inasmuch as "likely opinion about the useful is preferable to exact knowledge of the useless" (4). 29 Such rhetoricians have no concern with affairs which are private or public, but "are most pleased with speeches having no practical service for any particulars" (10). Mocking their arguments, such as the demonstration that "the life of a beggar is more enviable than that of the rest of men," Isocrates finds most ridiculous their attempt to persuade their listeners of their exact knowledge of politics, which they never demonstrate in actual deeds (9). The arguments Plato uses to condemn the political rhetoricians for their lack of theoretical knowledge30 Isocrates turns against Plato for his lack of any practical achievements. After contrasting the ease of speaking on trivial subjects with the difficulty of producing serious speeches of general importance, Isocrates introduces his speech on Helen as the model for a proper eulogy, in contrast with the inadequate attempt of his predecessor on the subject. 31 Through the contradiction between his demand for serious topics, concerning the practical affairs of the city, and his apparently playful treatment of a mythological theme, 32 Isocrates exhibits the complexity of his writing, compelling his reader to look for the real meaning of "Helena," possessor of the highest degree of beauty, which is itself "most precious and most divine" (Helen 54). For all men give homage to the beautiful as to gods, prefer slavery to the beautiful rather than ruling over others, call all other slaves flatterers but call servants of beauty "lovers of the beautiful" (56). That Socrates' mythic hymn praising eros as love of the beautiful seems to echo Isocrates' glorification of Helen as the paradigm of the beautiful should not be surprising, for the model of each speech is the legendary recantation Stesichorus was compelled to produce after speaking ill of Helen.

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After affirming the power for punishment and reward that Helen wielded over the poet Stesichorus, Isocrates describes as well her nocturnal visit to Homer, commanding the composition of the poem on the Trojan War (65). By attributing the glory of Homer's poem not to his art but to Helen's natural beauty, Isocrates recalls the paradoxical juxtaposition at the opening of his speech between the playful theme of Helen's beauty and the demand for serious subjects of general importance. But Helen is a serious subject worthy of Isocrates' attention because she gives her name to the Hellenes, a name which should be applied to "those who share our culture rather than to those who share a common blood" (.Panegyricus 56). Whereas Socrates revealed the truth behind his praise of the beautiful to be the divine madness of philosophic eros, Isocrates reveals the serious significance of Helen's beauty to be her role in uniting the Greeks and preventing their slavery to the barbarians (Helen 67). But the foundation of Hellenic unity, which Isocrates identifies as devotion to beauty, depends in the last analysis upon the ability of the philosopher to speak of the beautiful in a worthy manner. Twisting the apparent subordination of Homer's art to Helen's natural beauty, Isocrates thus justifies his own art of writing, through the identification of Helen with "the arts and philosophic studies" (67), The conclusion of Isocrates' model for the rhetorical art thus confirms his opening discussion of that art: the true object of praise is not Helen but the writer of her proper eulogy (cf. Helen 14). As a model of the beautiful, Helen may represent the arts and philosophic studies, but the value of the arts and of philosophy is itself determined by their function as the source and the effect of Greek unity, represented by Helen's role as the cause of the first common expedition against the barbarians (67). In the concealed identification of Helen with philosophy, Isocrates exhibits that art of writing which he shares with Plato. But while Isocrates, from his human perspective, subordinates or equates love of the truth to love of Athens and of Hellas, Plato indicates that a "divine" perspective would demand the subordination of love of Athens and of Hellas to love of the truth. Through the echo of Isocrates' eulogy of Helen in Socrates' eulogy of divine eros, Plato directs our attention to Isocrates' defense of the practice of writing as a necessary political act which, unlike living speech, can reach "all the cities of Hellas" and can achieve immortality through human honor. Like Plato, Isocrates denies the validity of the "art of letters" as a model for the art of speaking, on the basis of the impossibility of fixed knowledge of that which is constantly changing; but precisely in light of that impossibility, Isocrates' defense for his own activity of writing is grounded on its power to preserve the prudence of reasonable insight into political affairs and the persuasiveness of true opinion artfully presented. The highest value of the product of writing Isocrates therefore ascribes to its capacity for uniting all those who speak the same language and share the same culture, who ought, for that reason, to join together in a cohesive political community. This political power of the art of writing, which allows it to create an audience

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over space and"time? must be defended, over against the Socratic commitment to living speech, in the written work of Plato no less than that of Isocrates; but insofar as the source of the value of the written word is not restricted to prudence based on the persuasiveness of true opinion, the Platonic defense of the art of writing must be determined by that love of wisdom which motivates the private conversations of Socrates and his companions. The product of writing which Isocrates considers a wasted effort, devoted to trivial or impossible matters, Plato therefore identifies as a playful reminder which can evoke in its reader the only serious activity, that of dialectic thought and speech (cf. Phaedrus 277e-278b). Only the product of writing moved by this "more godlike force" can be defended as worthy of the name 'philosophy.' While such writing may not be the most effective for "speaking and acting before fellow men," it is, as far as human ability admits, "pleasing to the gods" (cf. Phaedrus 273e).

NOTES

Chapter I 1. As the portrait of an encounter between Socrates and one other individual, the Phaedrus may be linked with the Euthyphro, Crito, Ion, Cleitophon, Menexenus, Alcibiades I and 11, Hipparchus, Minos, and Hippias Major. Of these dramatic representations, the Phaedrus exhibits the most private setting, yet it is at the same time the most explicit in suggesting that the conversation is for the sake of someone other than the present interlocuter. 2. The condemnation of poetry as "imitation of imitation" in Book X of the Republic (597e) points to the role of the poet as servant, consciously or not, of the political regime, imitating artifacts (opinions) created by the craftsman-legislator. "Legislators and poets are the makers of the horizons constituted by law and convention; or, to use the symbols of the cave image, they are the men who carry the statues and other things the reflections of which the prisoners see" (Alan Bloom, ed., The Republic, "Interpretative Essay," p. 504). 3. Socrates makes a special point of asking about Phaedrus's meeting with Lysias "in town," where he has been entertained at the house of Epicrates, formerly owned by Morychus, near the Olympeium. Epicrates, according to a scholiast on Aristophanes' Ecclesiasusae 71, was a rhetorician and demagogue; in his speech, Against Epicrates and His Fellow Envoys, Lysias accuses him of theft for having accepted a bribe when acting as envoy to the Persian king. Morychus is a man whose fame in antiquity rested not on the minor tragedies he composed, but on his reputation for gluttony. See the scholiast on Aristophanes' Achamiam 887, Wasps 506, and Peace 1008. Phaedrus, a glutton for speeches, is entertained by a feast of words from Lysias, staying in the home of a famous glutton! 4. Socrates acknowledges his debt to the ode of Pindar: "My mother, Thebes of the golden shield / I will consider your interest even greater than business" (Isthmia 1.1). Socrates ironically suggests that hearing the diatribe between Lysias and Phaedrus is for him the equivalent of those interests of the city which transcend personal pursuits of leisure. 5. In his description of the most rudimentary city, Socrates suggests that the absence of the evils of private property and leisure may be, at the same time, the absence of the necessary (though not sufficient) conditions for philosophy. See Republic 369b-372e; cf. Statesman 272a-d; Laws 670a-d. 6. Socrates seems to deny the distinction Aristotle affirms between practical virtue or political actions—which are unleisurely, aim at some other end, and are not desirable for their own sake—and philosophy or theoria—which requires self-sufficiency, leisure, and unweariedness as far as possible for man, seems superior in serious worth, aims at no end beyond itself, and has its pleasure proper to it (Nichomachean Ethics 10.7, 1177bl 5-20). 7. Socrates demonstrates his awareness of Phaedrus's particular concerns in his playful promise to follow Phaedrus "to Megara and back again" (228a), quoting Herodicus the physician, known to us from the Republic (406a-b) as a valetudinarian and from the Protagoras (316e) as an example of the sophist in disguise. 8. In the corpus of the dialogues, the only character who never appears with shoes is the wandering, homeless Eros! (Symposium 203d).

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9. Socrates' endurance in the face of physical hardship is reported by Alcibiades in his description of the campaign at Potidaea: "But again, his endurance of the w i n t e r , . . . he went out only in a cloak as he usually wears, and went over the ice unshod more easily than the rest of us in our shoes. T h e soldiers looked askance at him as though he despised them" (Symposium 220b). 10. After Phaedrus's request for a set of speeches about eros has been proposed, Socrates announces that no one could vote in opposition, "For I myself could not decline, when I claim to know nothing but the erotika" {Symposium 177d-e). 11. When Socrates, in preparation for his recantation to eros, asks Phaedrus whether he believes "Eros is from Aphrodite and some kind of a god" (242d), Phaedrus only answers, " S o it is said," apparently remembering Diotima's identification of Eros as neither human nor divine. See Symposium 202e. 12. When Eryximachus, son of the physician Acumenus, recommends abstinence from heavy drinking due to its harmfulness, Phaedrus immediately declares the constancy of his obedience (Symposium 176d). 13. Attending a gathering of the sophists, Phaedrus is seated with Eryximachus and others at the feet of Hippias, listening to him answer questions on nature and the heavenly bodies (Protagoras 315c). 14. Phaedrus's immediate concern with honor recalls the description in Book IX of the Republic (549a) of the "timocratic" man, as one who is a lover of the Muses and of listening to speeches though not himself a rhetorician, harsh to slaves, gentle to the freebom, submissive to rulers, loving honor, devoted to gymnastics, loving money as he grows older, neglectful of the true Muses concerned with speech and philosophy. 15. Cf. Iliad 10.482, 15.262. 16. In identifying the willingness for self-sacrifice as a sign of true love, Phaedrus seems to betray his understanding of eros infected by thumos. See Republic 440d. 17. The sophist Hippias whom Phaedrus admires (cf. Protagoras 315c) considers his most brilliant art to be that of "mnemonics" (Hippias Minor 368d). 18. Socrates later compares Lysias's speech to the epigram on the tombstone of Midas the Phrygian, greatest lover of gold (264c). Socrates then characterizes Phaedrus, Lysias, Thrasymachus, and the others as men who teach an art of speaking to "those willing to pay them as kings" (266c). 19. "Diu minne ist der natur, daz si den menschen wandelt in die dine, die er minnet," as Heidegger quotes Meister Eckhardt, adopting an expression of Dionysius the Areopagite. Martin Heidegger, "Das Ding," in Vortrage und Aufsatze, ed. Clemens Grafpodeweis (Pfullingen: Leske Verlag, 1954), vol. 2, p. 49. 20. The attraction of likes as a basis for friendship is taken up in Socrates' discussion with Lysis: "They [the poets] speak not carelessly, displaying their opinions about those who happen to be friends; they say god himself makes them friends, leading them toward each other. They speak, I believe, like this: 'Always the like god leads to like'" (Lysis 214a). 21. That the foremost condition for persuasion is the willingness of an audience to listen is suggested by the dramatic opening of the Republic, when Polemarchus, Adeimantus, and their companions, trying to detain Socrates and Glaucon from returning to town, command them: "You must either prove yourselves the better or stay here"; when Socrates asks, "Why is there not the alternative of our persuading you that you should let us go?," Polemarchus replies, "But could you persuade us if we refused to listen?" (Republic 327c). 22. When Theodorus protests against Socrates' forcefulness, claiming, "It is not easy,

129 Notes to Chapter III Socrates, for someone to sit with you and not be forced to give a logos... for you do not let anyone go who approaches you until you have forced him to strip and wrestle in speeches," Socrates excuses himself by pleading his "terrible love of these gymnastics" ('Theaetetus 169a-b). 23. Socrates soon identifies his divine frenzy inspired by Phaedrus's brightness (234d) with his nympholepsy inspired by the gods of the place, of which Phaedrus is said to be the cause (238d). At the close of his first speech, Socrates again associates Phaedrus's inspiration with possession by the nymphs (241c). 24. "Par son jeu, Pharmacee a entraine vers la mort une purete virginale et un dedans inentame. A peine plus loin, Socrates compare & une drogue les textes ecrits que Phaedre a apporte avec lui. Ce pharmakon, h la fois remede et poison, s'introduit deji dans le corps du discours avec toute son ambivalence" (Jacques Derrida, "La Pharmacie de Platon," p. 78). 25. Typhon, a grisly-monster with one hundred dragon heads, conquered and cast into Tartarus by Zeus, is a rebel against the established order of the gods. In the Fables (197.125-26) of Hyginus Mythographus, it is said that Typhon represents the Egyptian equivalent of the Greek god Pan, to whom Socrates finally addresses his prayer for inner beauty. See Fontes Historiae Religiones Aegyptiacae, p. 349. Plutarch contends that the explanation of the Greek name sheds light on the nature of the Egyptian god, for tetuphonai means "to be crazy" ( O f l s i s and Osiris 357d),

26. See Apology 23b, 29d. 27. In his commentary on the Phaedrus, Marsilio Ficino interprets the resting spot as the Academy, the plane tree as Plato, the chaste (hagnos) willow (dgnos) as pure love, the fountain of the Muses as communal wisdom. "In Phaedrum, commentaria et arguments," p. 359. 28. Socrates, with ironic foresight, includes in his praise the shrill (liguron) summer music of the cicada chorus, and thus foreshadows his later invocation of the "shrillvoiced" Muses, relating their epithet to the musical race of the Ligyans. But Socrates' apparent praise of the cicada music here, like his later praise of the Muses, is in fact a recognition of the danger of seduction. 29. Socrates' praise for their resting spot, beginning with an oath "By Hera" (230b), may suggest that the model for the scene is Homer's portrayal of Hera's seduction of Zeus, in the soft grass of the cloud created by Zeus to assure the privacy of their love-making, which is in fact moved by Hera's political intention of diverting Zeus' attention. See Iliad 14.262. In Pausanius's description of an altar-site on the Achelous, he includes a sanctuary of Hera covered with figures of nymphs, or sirens, relating the story of Hera's persuading the nymphs to compete in singing with the Muses, who, winning the contest, punish the nymphs by plucking out their wings and making crowns for themselves of them (Description of Greece 9.34.3). 30. Thus the laws of Athens report the evidence for Socrates' acceptance of them: "For you would never have remained in the city more than all other Athenians, if you had not been more pleased than they; for you never went out of the city to a festival or anywhere else, except for military service. You never made any other journey, like other men, and you had no desire to know any other city or other laws, but found us adequate and our city" (Crito 52b). 31. Socrates thus foreshadows the irony of the apparent praise he later bestows on the ancients, who were content in their foolishness to listen to "oak and rock" if only the truth were spoken (275b-c).

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32. Aristotle reports^hat the archons of Athens hach to swear an oath to set up a gold statue for any transgression of the laws, before taking office (Athenian Politeia 7.1). If the oath for the archons was a promise with respect to breaking the law, Phaedrus apparently sees Lysias's speech as the law which he and Socrates are about to transgress. 33. Aristotle chooses the offerings of the Cypselids as a model for the tyrant's practice of impoverishing bis subjects to prevent them from conspiring against him (Politics 5.11, 1313b22). 34. In the context of this dialogue, filled with the playfulness of etymologies, one might indulge in the playful association of the plane tree (platanos) with its poetic fabricator Plato. Socrates and Phaedrus have sought a resting spot for their speech in the shade of the plane tree, but it is in fact the Platonic dialogue which provides a protective shelter for the speeches of Socrates and Phaedrus. See note 27 above. 35. In his discussion of shame and shamelessness in Book II of the Rhetoric, Aristotle claims, "We feel shame about something if it is done openly, before all men's eyes, hence the saying 'Shame dwells in the eyes'" (1384a33-35). 36. Cf. Ion 535e-536b. 37. The clue to this enslavement is provided by Socrates' implied address to Phaedrus as pai at the beginning of his recantation (244a), and by his implied references to Phaedrus at 237b, 237c, 238d, and 243e. The understanding of pai as "slave" or "beloved" is necessary in order to account for the illusory impression of youth which Phaedrus displays, granting the validity of the arguments demonstrating that he must be a middle-aged man in this dialogue. These arguments are based on the fact of his participation in the Protagoras, whose dramatic date is generally accepted as somewhere around 433 B.C., along with the evidence in this dialogue that Phaedrus and Lysias are both in Athens and that Sophocles and Euripides are both alive, the Phaedrus therefore supposedly taking place around 415 B.C. See G. J. DeVries, A Commentary on the Phaedrus of Plato, pp. 6-7.

Chapter 11 1. A deceptive speech which condemns the madness of eros affects Socrates as a source of divine inspiration! Even Phaedrus suspects Socrates' playfulness (234d). In his admission of being overcome, Socrates foreshadows his own transformation of Lysias's speech, where the experience of falling in love consists in being overcome (ekplettontai) by the vision of the beautiful (2 50a). But this experience of being stricken by amazement in the face of the beautiful is presented as a cause of ignorance, of misunderstanding one's own condition. That danger is again acknowledged in Socrates' story about the cicada tribe, arising from those men who were overcome (exeplagesan) by delight in song at the birth of the Muses (259b). 2. In replacing the image of a branch or fruit with that of a drug, Socrates points to the danger of the artificial product of writing, which supposedly carries him away from himself (cf. 275a). Lysias's poikilos speech shares the nature of "names," compared in the Cratylus (394a-b) to physicians' drugs whose true medicinal value always appears the same to the physician while different colors and perfumes make them appear different to the uninitiated. 3. Dionysius of Halicarnassus describes the speeches of Lysias as "simple and artless" in appearance, with an artificial illusion of naturalness: "Beneath the semblance of artlessness his art is concealed" (De Lysias 1,16). The power of Lysias's reputation as speechwriter for the law courts seems to lie behind the story of the proposed speech he wrote for

131 Notes to Chapter III Socrates' defense after the indictment was drawn up by Meletus: "Socrates read it and said, 'A beautiful speech, Lysias, but not fitting for me, for it appears to be more forensic than philosophic.' When Lysias questioned, i f it is beautiful, how can it fail to suit you?,' Socrates replied, 'Would not beautiful cloaks and shoes be just as unsuitable for me?'" (Diogenes Laertius Lives of the Eminent Philosophers 2.40-41). 4. In the first book of the Republic, Lysias appears at his home in the Piraeus, with his brother Polemarchus and his father Cephalus, a Syracusan invited by Pericles to settle in Athens, where the family was occupied with a prosperous business as shield manufacturers. When the family was banished from Athens by the thirty tyrants, Polemarchus was put to death, while Lysias escaped to Megara, where he spent the year in exile, devoting his time and remaining funds to the supporters of the democracy. These events are described by Lysias himself in the speech Against Eratosthenes, delivered upon his return to Athens in 403, when he was granted the right of citizenship, although that right was almost immediately revoked. With his funds depleted, Lysias turned to the business of writing speeches for the Athenian law courts, where he himself could never appear in person. See R. C. Jebb, Attic Orators from Antiphon to haeos, pp. 142-52. 5. Of the thirty-three extant speeches attributed to Lysias, only three—Against the

Subversion of the Ancestral Constitution,

the Funeral Oration, and the Olympic

Oration—are not forensic speeches of accusation or defense. 6. Ancient testimonies refer to "the erotic speech of Lysias" without confirming the authenticity of the speech. For a report of the debate, see DeVries, A Commentary on the Phaedrus of Plato, pp. 11-14. 7. As an example, consider the myth and its interpretation which Protagoras delivers to Socrates in Plato's Protagoras (320d-328c). 8. EKonysius of Halicarnassus, describing Lysias's excellence in mimesis, praises his skill in character representation, exhibited by his ability to imitate the thoughts, diction, and style of the speaker (De Lysia 1.15). 9. The speech whicli Lysias composes to be delivered in the law court must look more like spontaneous speech than spontaneous speech itself. "When it comes to the rhetoricians, however, who does not know which are the b e s t . , . Lysias, for his brevity, simplicity and coherence of his thought, and for his well-concealed cleverness" (Dio Chrysostom

On Training for Public Speaking 11). 10. In contrasting the persuasive power of Lysias with that of the rhetorician Isaeus, Dionysius of Halicaniassus asserts that the speeches of Lysias, "even when anything but honest and straightforward, arouse no suspicion because of their simple style" (De haeo 1.97); it seems to be this concealed artfulness which persuades Phaedrus of the superiority of Lysias's love speech. 11. Eros, like the just and the good, produces faction in our common understanding rather than harmony (cf. 263a). But the same ambiguity which is necessary for rhetorical persuasion seems to be necessary as well for "collection and division," thus indicating the unity of rhetoric and dialectics. Cf. Aristotle Rhetoric 1.1, 1354a 1-15, 1355a4-b25. 12. The confirmation of Socrates' irony lies in the repetitions produced by Plato in the course of the dialogue as a whole: at least five times Plato has Socrates repeat the requirements for the art of speaking or writing (cf. 270d, 271a, 271d, 273d, 277b). It is only in light of the subtle additions or omissions marking each repetition that the otherwise concealed context and purpose of the argument become visible; the same principle of interpretation would seem to be applicable to the repetitions in the written speech of Lysias.

132

Notes to Chapter III

13. Dionysius -of Hdlicarnassus praises the heuresis^of Lysias's speeches, his ability to discover arguments or ideas, but advises pupils to turn to other models for better oikonomia or power of arrangement. He admits, nevertheless, that all of his speeches are divided into proem, narrative, proofs, and epilogue (De Lysia 1,15, 27). 14. Every new argument is introduced by such connectives: eti de- 231a6, 231b6, 232d6, 233d5; kai toi- 231c7; kai men de- 231d6, 232b5* 232e3, 233a4; kai men de kai233d9; toinun- 231e3. 15. At the end of the Rhetoric (3.19, 1420b2-5), Aristode provides an example of an appropriate conclusion for a well-arranged speech, citing the final statement of the one speech known to have been delivered by Lysias in his own name: "I will conclude my accusation. You have heard, you have seen, you have suffered, you have the facts; judge." Cf. Against Eratosthenes 99. This conclusion seems to be echoed in the opening lines of the love-speech which Plato's Phaedrus attributes to Lysias. 16. For the fault of eulogizing his art as if it were under censure before answering "what it is," Socrates condemns Gorgias's student and spokesman, Pol us, who appears "to have practiced more in what is called rhetoric than dialegesthai" (Gorgias 448e). 17. In his discussion on friendship in the Nichomachean Ethics (8.2) Aristotle establishes a division of friendship based on the different possible objects of love: the useful, the pleasant, and the good, yielding the friendship of utility, that of pleasure, and that of the good. He remarks that complaints and reproaches are most often to be found in the friendship of utility, for there the lovers use each other for their own interests and each wants to get the better bargain (8.13, 1162bl7,ff.). Aristotle affirms that such a friendship between unlikes requires some proportional exchange to render the parties equal, noting that in the political form the common measure is money. But when the lover loves the beloved for pleasure while the beloved loves the lover for utility, the lover complains that the excess of love he gives is not returned, though he might not be lovable, while the beloved complains that the lover who previously promised all now gives nothing (9.1, 1164a 3-7). 18. Aristotle elaborates his discussion of friendship by comparing it to its corresponding forms of justice (Nichomachean Ethics 8.13). As justice includes both the written (legal) and the unwritten (moral), so the friendship of utility is divided into the legal, based on fixed terms, and the moral, a general expectation of receiving as much as is given or more (1162b22 ff.). Aristotle would thus describe the love-relation which Lysias proposes as the moral type of utilitarian friendship parallel to the unwritten law of distributive justice. 19. Phaedrus himself praises the speech as "supernatural," especially "in names" (234d). He understands from the outset that the cleverness of the speech has to do with the nonlover's self-designation. 20. The proof of this impossibility is the complete absence of vocatives in a speech which purports to be a direct address from one individual to another, in contrast with the vocatives which begin and end both of the speeches delivered by Socrates. See Seth Benardete, "The Condemnation of Socrates," p. 207. 21. Lysias implies that every rhetorician addresses the demos as a concealed lover. The image of the demos as a fictitious single being, as the beloved who in fact enslaves the potential political leader seeking its favors, is drawn by Socrates in describing the situation of the lover Callicles: "You and I happen to suffer the same, the two of us loving two beings, I, Alcibiades son of Cleinias and philosophy, you, the Athenian demos and Demos son of Pyrilampes." Gorgias 481d-e; cf. Gorgias 516a. 22. Lysias's speech does not itself resolve the question of whether "the art of wooing the

133 Notes to Chapter III electorate with promises differs from the speeches of the private part of the art of love," implicitly raised by the Eleatic Stranger's distinction between private and public "hunting" in the search for the sophist. See Benardete, "The Condemnation of Socrates," pp. 194-95. 23. The speech of the nonlover puts on the appearance of the condition Socrates demands in Book VII of the Republic (52 lb) for potential rulers of a well-governed city: "But what we require is that those wooing it should not be lovers of rule; for if that is so, there will be a battle of rival lovers." 24. If the sophistry of Lysias's speech, as a mirror of Phaedrus's character, is a model of doxomimesis, Phaedrus would seem to represent the "simple mimetic," who, in his foolishness, believes he knows that of which he has merely an opinion, while Lysias would represent the "ironic mimetic," who, "because of much tumbling in speeches, suspects and fears that he is ignorant of that which he pretends to know." See Sophist 268a. 25. The paradigm for this character of the written word is the written law (cf. 257c), which the Eleatic Stranger likens to the orders of a professional gymnast who must direct a crowd of men at once: "and so we must believe that the lawmaker, commanding the herd and maintaining justice about contracts toward each other, will never be able, by making laws for a whole crowd, to give accurately the fitting for each" (Statesman 294e~295a). 26. The essential characteristics of the beings which the Eleatic Stranger must supplement with the reality of soul and mind is the absence of life and motion (Sophist 248e-249b). 27. "In sum: the baseness of Lysias's speech contains a serious teaching.... As always in Plato, the low prefigures the high." Stanley Rosen, "The Role of the Non-Lover in Plato's Phaedrus," p. 437. 28. The activity of reading is thus the fitting model for the problem of knowledge understood as recognition. See Statesman 277e-278d. 29. Cf. Meno 80d-86b. 30. "Ce mouvement [the repeatability of the written word] n'est pas un accident sensible et empirique, il est li£ a l'idealite de 1'eidos, com me possibility de la repetition du mime." Jacques Derrida, "La Pharmacie de Platon," p. 125. 31. The speech of the nonlover is like the poikilos nature of the sophist, which the Eleatic Stranger cannot grasp with one hand only. See Sophist 226a. 32. Lysias's writteri speech is like Protagoras's book Truth, a shrine for the. oracular pronouncement that "of all things, man is the measure"; Protagoras's Truth remains plausible only as a dead product of writing, whereas, if brought to life, it becomes true neither to himself nor to anyone else. See Theaetetus 152a, 171c. See also Benardete, "The Condemnation of Socrates," pp. 64-66. 33. The tombstone epigram is quoted by Diogenes Laertius, who gives credit to Simonides for citing the poem as evidence for the belief that "all things fall short of the might of the gods," adding that it is not the statue but the verses of the poet which alone endure. Lives of Eminent Philosophers 1.89.90. 34. The presence of the tombstone statue recalls the statue of Boreas (221c), the figures of nymphs and Achelous (230b), Phaedrus's promises for a golden statue of himself and Socrates at Delphi (23 5d) and for a statue in beaten metal of Socrates at Olympia (236b), the desire of the lover to sacrifice to his beloved as to an idol or a god (257a), the lover's adorning his beloved like a statue to honor and worship him (252d). The statue, in each case, seems to be the fitting image for the problem of the tension between motion and test,

134

Notes to Chapter III

between the desire for ifving responsiveness and the desire for immortality, in the experience of eros. 35. Cf. Republic 408b; Laws 660e. 36. Cf. Republic 416e-417a; Laws 742a-d, 743d-e. 37. See Phaedrus 249b-c, 263b-c, 265d-266b, 270d, 273d-e, 277b-c; cf. Cratylus 386d-388c.

38. Cf. Timaeus 23a. 39. Socrates himself admits, in reluctantly concluding his critical examination of Lysias's speech, that it exhibits " paradeigmata useful to contemplate if not to imitate" (264e).

Chapter III 1. Because his usual custom is to question his interlocuter, Socrates often ironically attributes the long monologues he delivers to some other source. Cf. the speech of Diotima in the Symposium and the speech of Aspasia in the Menexenus. 2. When the speeches are taken up as models for the discussion on tekhne, Socrates first attributes the paradigmatic status of the "two speeches" (dual number) to the gods of the place and the prophets of the Muses, denying that he possesses any art of speaking. After unsuccessfully examining the speech of Lysias for the presence of a definition, Phaedrus assures Socrates of the presence of a definition at the beginning of Socrates' speech (singular), which Socrates attributes to the nymphs and to Pan (263d). The artfulness which Socrates attributes to the gods of the place in defending the moderation of nonlove provides an ironic opposition to the hubris caused by Socrates' daimonion in defending the madness of eros. 3. In introducing the doctrine of recollection in the Meno (81a), Socrates paradoxically claims that his understanding of all learning as a process of recovering what is within oneself has been acquired from "ancient priests and priestesses" who knew how to give a logos of their own teachings. 4. Like the speech Socrates is about to deliver, the madness of love portrayed by Sappho and Anacreon is only silent, not contradictory, about the possibility of "divine madness." In the Dissertations (24.18) of Maximus of Tyre, the love moving Sappho is identified with the "art of love" of Socrates, both being captivated by beautiful persons and practicing the same sort of love, he of males and she of females. In confirming Socrates' "wild love" of Phaedrus, Maximus of Tyre cites Sappho's description of the erotic experience: "As for me, love has shaken my wits a down-rushing whirlwind that falls upon the oaks." Dissertations 24.9, cited in Greek Lyric Poetry, ed. J. M, Edmonds, vol. 1, p. 155. Anacreon is mentioned by Pausanius (Description of Greece 1.25) as the first poet after Sappho whose chief theme was love. 5. Reported as the reply of Anacreon when asked why he did not write hymns to the gods, in a scholiast on Pindar Isthmia 11.1, cited in Greek Lyric Poetry, ed. J. M. Edmonds, vol. 2, p. 127. 6. Socrates will attempt to provide a philosophic ground for the common principle of the rhetoricians, used to justify competition based on the partiality of every speech. Cf. Lysias Funeral Oration 2; Isocrates Helen 11-13; see Appendix, "Isocrates the Beautiful." 7. The mythical tale of the nymphs who punish their nonloving beloved by blinding him, transformed into the tale of the Muses blinding Stesichorus for speaking ill of Helen, is now enacted by Socrates, blinding himself for speaking ill of Eros. Cf. Diodorus Siculus

135 Notes to Chapter III 8. The difference between Lysias's dramatic representation of the nonlover's speech and Socrates' narrative report reflects the structural difference between those Platonic dialogues (like the Phaedrus) taking the form of dramatic representation, and those dialogues taking the form of narrative report. The distinction between direct discourse, which consists of the image of a conversation with no specific point of view, and narrative discourse, which presents the image of a conversation from the point of view of its reporter, might be considered in light of the division which the Eleatic Stranger establishes between the image-making art of eikastike, producing an imitation attentive only to the dimensions of that which it represents, and the art of phantastike, producing an imitation which takes into account the perspective of its observer. See Sophist 23 5d-236c. 9. Lysias's direct discourse would represent the "mimetic" poetry which Socrates condemns in Book III of the Republic (392d ff.) because of the deceptive character of its imitation, insofar as the speaker is forced to assume a role other than his true nature. 10. The rhetoricahprocedure of Socrates' first speech seems to reflect the hypotheticaldeductive method which Socrates assigns, in his image of the divided line, to the class of dianoia, where "the soul is compelled to use hypotheses in the investigation, not proceeding to the arche, as if it were unable to remove itself from and rise above its hypotheses, but using images" (Republic 511b). The model for this activity is the method of the geometricians, who "postulate certain assumptions and, taking their start from these, pursue the inquiry from this point on consistently, concluding with that for which they began the investigation" (510c). 11. The term 'nonlover' seems to operate like the 'not-beautiful,' which the Eleatic Stranger uses to illustrate the nature of "the other," for the not-beautiful is not only determined by its being other than the beautiful, but, viewed from another perspective, has a determinate identity of its own. See Sophist 257d-258b. 12. The tyrannical nature of the speaker's activity in establishing this definition is reflected in the content of the definition itself; the etymological source of eros, elsewhere connected with "asking questions" (eroton, Cratylus 398d), is now appropriately linked with "force" ( r h o m e , 238c). 13. Socrates' nonlover precludes without examination the possibility of some progressive movement beginning with eros of beauty of the body, as Diotima relates in her initiation to the mysteries of eros. See Symposium 210a—212a. 14. Socrates describes his axiomatic definition of eros, condemning the madness of being carried away, by means of enthusiastic poetry in honor of Dionysus, patron of the experience of being carried away! But his description should be taken in light of "dithyrambics" as a sign of the ridiculous, as in Cratylus 409c, where one of Socrates' longest and most absurd etymologies is called "dithyrambic." 15. Cf. Republic 427e. 16. Socrates' nonlover seems to ridicule Phaedrus's glorification of the indomitable courage of a "small band of lovers" against all enemies. Cf. Symposium 179a. 17. The summary of the nature of the lover appears to echo Socrates' summary of the nature of the tyrant: "jealous, faithless, unjust, friendless, impious, receiving and nourishing all evils, most unhappy himself and rendering those around him so" (Republic 580a). 18. In Socrates' recantation, it is precisely the eunoia of the true lover which guarantees the beloved's recognition of the value of the relationship and his return of like affection (255b). 19. The identification of the lover with the tyrant is confirmed by this concluding verse, for it is the tyrannical man in the Republic who is likened to the wolf: untame, never

136

Notes to Chapter III

20. The daimonion, ,fvho influences the erotic particularity of Socrates' attachment to individual interlocuters (cf, Theages 128b), seems to have restrained Socrates from the public act of writing just as it restrained him from participation in politics (cf. Republic 496c). 21. Compare Phaedrus 249d-250d with Phaedo 73b-76e.

Chapter JV 1. Cf. Theages 128b. 2. "We are offered a key to the character of Socrates by the wonderful phenomenon known as 'the daimonion of Socrates.' In exceptional circumstances, when his tremendous intellect wavered, he found secure support in the utterances of a divine voice that spoke up at such moments. This voice, whenever it comes, always dissuades. In this utterly abnormal nature, instinctive wisdom appears only in order to hinder conscious knowledge occasionally. While in all productive men it is instinct that is the creativeaffirmative force, and consciousness acts critically and dissuasively, in Socrates it is instinct that becomes the critic, and consciousness that becomes the creator—truly a monstrosity per defectumi" Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy, trans. Walter Kaufmann, p. 88. 3. Diogenian suggests that the significance of this line from Ibycus lies in the proverb "as ancient as Ibycus," used of foolish persons on the grounds that Ibycus gave up the opportunity for ruling as a tyrant over his fellow citizens, Proverfcs 1.207, cited in Greek Lyric Poetry, ed. J. M. Edmonds, vol. 2, p. 83. In modeling his own expression of guilt on that of the poet Ibycus, Socrates recalls another image from Ibycus, which he hears from Parmenides in their conversation together: "Love's approach makes me tremble like an old champion horse of the chariot race when he draws the swift car all unwillingly to the contest" (quoted in a scholiast on Parmenides 136e). While Parmenides compares the preparation for philosophy to the experience of eros, he understands the link between them to be nothing but compulsion. 4. The significance with which Plato imbues Stesichorus's legend about the phantom Helen is revealed in the course of Socrates' discussion with Glaucon about pleasure and pain in Book IX of the Republic, where Helen is introduced as an image for the phantoms of true pleasures mixed with pains, "shadow-paintings" colored by the context of needs which create them, "begetting raging and senseless loves for themselves to be fought over" (586c). With the image of the phantom Helen, Plato enters into a tradition of the poets (cf. Euripides Helen 605 ff.; Electro 1282 ff.); but Plato must certainly be thinking of his contemporary, Isocrates, who uses the same story for the defense of his own art of writing in the service of the beautiful (cf. Helen 64). See Appendix, "Isocrates the Beautiful." 5. The same irony with which Plato portrays Socrates' inspiration in the Cratylus (396d), originating with the seer Euthyphro, who provides Socrates with divine knowledge of the original truth of words whose meaning has become hidden, is here present in the description of his inspired knowledge of the etymologies of. the names of those responsible for the speeches on eros. 6. See Herman Sinaiko, Love, Knowledge, and Discourse in Plato: Dialogue and

Dialectic in Phaedrus, Republic, Parmenides, p. 101. 7. In establishing the proper place of pleasure in the hierarchy of goods at the conclusion of the Philebus, Socrates condemns the many who trust in the observation of the "loves of the beasts" as "augurers trust in birds," rather than in the "inspired speech of the philosophic Muse" (67b).

137 Notes to Chapter III 8. In the defense of his life before the Athenian court, Socrates discloses his attitude toward the prophetess of Delphi, whose oracular utterance he accepts, indeed, as the central mission of his life, but only by virtue of subjecting it to examination in a lifelong effort to refute it. See Apology 20c-23b. 9. In the Phaedo, after poetically speaking in the language of the mysteries, Socrates proclaims that it is the truth alone that is the real purification, along with moderation, courage, justice, and wisdom. He elaborates by praising the men who established the mysteries as being "not unenlightened," based on his own interpretation of their hidden meaning—that the true mystics, who are rare, are the philosophers (69c). 10. Cf. Protagoras 347e; Hippias Minor 36 5d; Apology 22b-c; Ion 533e-534d; Laws 719c, 801b-d; Republic 600e-601a. 11. The divine madness of ems seems to be as "many-membered" and "many-formed" as the complex hubris which Socrates' nonlover described in the previous speech (cf. 238a-b). 12. Socrates thus attempts to fulfill in his recantation the demand he repeatedly lays down as the necessary starting point for any "artful" speaker (cf. 237c, 259e, 271a, 27Id, 273d, 277b-c). 13. It has been suggested that Plato's demonstration is an attempt to connect the arche of Ionic natural philosophy with the Orphic-Pythagorean religious belief in the immortal soul. See J, B. Skemp, Theory of Motion in Plato's Later Dialogues, pp. 3 ff. Skemp suggests that the demonstration is influenced by the argument of the Pythagorean Alcmaeon, who attempts to prove the immortality of the soul on the basis of its kinship with the immortal, through its "ever-moving motion, for everything immortal is in continual motion—the sun, the moon, the stars, and the whole heavens" (cf. Aristotle De anima 40Sa29-bl). Socrates' proof, however, does not attempt to demonstrate the immortality of soul by analogy with the continuous movement of the heavens, but to derive the continuous movement of the heavens and of all becoming from the ever-moving, self-moving motion of soul as its arche. 14. Neither Socrates' argument nor his myth, however, explains how the generation of 'corporeal motion by soul is possible. 15. The justification for the identification of soul as self-moving motion in the argument with which Socrates begins the speech he delivers to Phaedrus seems to await the account of eros which follows the initial demonstration of immortality. The particular ground of the argument may not coincide, therefore, with that which underlies the Athenian Stranger's identification of self-motion (in Book X of the Laws) as the logos for the nature of the being whose "name" is psuche, just as "a number divided into two equal parts" is the logos for the being whose name is "even" (895d-896b). In the Stranger's argument, it is the identification of soul with life which allows for its identification with the self-moving, while the opposite order of proof seems to be intended in the argument Socrates delivers to Phaedrus. 16. Aristotle argues that "that which moves itself must comprise something which imparts motion but is unmoved, and something which is moved but does not necessarily move anything else; and either both are in contact with one another or one is in contact with the other" (Physics 8.5, 258al8-21). 17. Socrates' eikon may perhaps carry with it the long tradition, from Homer through Parmenides, of the chariot as an image for the "journey of the soul." 18. If the soul is divided into different parts for different activities, asks Aristotle, what holds it together? Is the unifying agent itself single or multiform? (De Anima 41 Ib6-.1J).

138

Notes to Chapter III

19. The contrast Socrates suggests in his images rifthe divine and the human soul recalls Homer's images, contrasting the chariots of the gods, represented by the yoked team of "two swift horses with brazen hooves and flowing manes" of Zeus (Iliad 8.41-42) or of Poseidon (Iliad 13.23), and the "mixed" team of Achilles, with its immortal "windswift" pair supplemented by a mortal thoroughbred (Iliad 16.148-54). 20. Pindar speaks of the altar at Olympia dedicated to the "twelve gods" for the worshippers of a cult founded by Heracles (Olympia 10.50). Herodotus and Thucydides both speak of the altar to the "twelve gods" at Athens. See Histories 2.7, 6.108; History of the Peloponnesiart War 6.54.6-7. 21. "The same impulse which calls art into being, as the complement and consummation of existence, seducing one to a continuation of life, was also the cause of the Olympian world which the Hellenic 'will' made use of as a transfiguring minor. Thus do the gods justify the life of man: they themselves live it—the only satisfactory theodicy!" Nietszche, Birth of Tragedy, trans. Walter Kaufmann, p, 43. 22. Cf. Aristotle Metaphysics 12.10, 1075all-16. 23. In the investigation of the names of the gods in the Cratylus (401b), Socrates begins with Hestia, "first according to law," identifying her name with the ancient word for being (essw), an identity supposedly recognized by the polis in establishing the primacy of this goddess for ritual sacrifice. Socrates seems to suggest that men naturally, and blindly, identify what is most private, and therefore primary for human opinion, with what is first by nature. 24. The significance of this inclusion is perhaps suggested by Socrates' description to Glaucon of the life of the tyrant: "Though his soul is as greedy as it is, he alone of all in the city may never travel abroad or observe any of the sacred festivals that other free men desire to see, but he must live, for the most part, cowering in his house like a woman, envying the other citizens, if someone can travel abroad and see something good" (Republic 579b~c). This image of the tyrant is, strangely enough, echoed in Callicles' description of Socrates' life as a lover of wisdom. See Gorgias 485d. 25. Cf. Republic 433a-b. 26. Socrates does not explain whether the gods who rest on the back of the heavens are nevertheless present for the control and "caring" of "all that is soulless"; perhaps he assumes the nonsimultaneity of contemplation and "caring" which the Eleatic Stranger attributes to god in the myth he relates to the young Socrates. See Statesman 272e. 27. In its receptivity to the feast beyond the heavens, the soul may exhibit its kinship with the unmoving beings, but the self-moving motion which defines 'soul' supplies that active principle missing in the realm of the beings. Cf. So^ftisf 248e-249b. 28. This association of types of the soul with roles in the city is suggested by the very names which describe them, most of which end in the suffix "-ikos," indicating the practice of an art. Cf. Seth Benardete, "The Condemnation of Socrates," p. 168. The exceptions to this principle, which would presumably indicate those pursuits which cannot be understood as a tekhne, include: the philosopher, the lover of beauty, the lawful king, one concerned with the care of the body, and some other imitator (248d). 29. The language through which the list of soul-types is expressed would seem to suggest its arrangement in a pattern other than that of the linear hierarchy in which it is presented. The first four roles are expressed in the genitive, after eis, with ordinal numbers, the fifth in the accusative, the last four roles in the nominative, with the numbers representing the level of soul in the dative. The first four types seem, then, to portray the soul as the active principle while the role is only a receptacle, whereas the last four portray

139 Notes to Chapter III the role as active while the soul only receives it. If the first half of the list, beginning with the highest, is mirrored in the last half, beginning with the lowest, the philosopher and tyrant, first and ninth types, might be linked in terms of their determination by eros (cf. Republic 490b, 573d); the second class, lawful king or warrior leader, might represent a form of authority mimicked by the sophist or demagogue, the eighth class (cf. Republic 492a-493d); the third class, businessman or financier (if not politician) might be associated with the seventh class, craftsman or farmer, on the basis of their pursuit of economic gain (cf. Republic 371 e); the gymnast or physician of the fourth class, might be linked with the sixth class, poet or imitative artist, whose honor for the beautiful over the good indicates honor for the body over the soul (cf. Laws 727d); the unique role allotted to the prophet or mystic as the central type may be a self-conscious reflection on the nature of the presentation itself as a "law of destiny." 30. This proposal might be supported by the image which Socrates offers to Theaetetus, of the "wax block" of the soul, which retains the impressions of perceptions and thoughts, and is considered a gift of Mnemosyne, mother of the Muses (Theaetetus 191d). Given the possible characteristics attributed to the wax block—hard or soft, big or small, pure or impure, or metrios—Socrates in fact suggests nine possible classes of human memory. See Seth Benardete, "The Condemnation of Socrates," p. 115.

31. Cf, Phaedo 61a. 32. Robert Brumbaugh offers a scheme for coordinating the nine types of the soul listed in the Phaedrus with the types of polity listed in the Republic, Books VIII and IX, and the division of classes in Republic III—IV. See Robert Brumbaugh, Plato's Mathematical Imagination, p. 142. Among other problems, such a coordination seems problematic in light of the difference between the tripartite division of logistikon, thumoeides, and epithumetikon (Republic 441a) and that of charioteer, white horse, and dark horse (Phaedrus 246b). 33. Another conjunction of fate and choice underlies the myth of Er at the conclusion of the Republic, where the order for the souls choosing a particular paradeigma of life is determined by lot, but "virtue has no master, each having more or less of it as he honors

• or despises it" (617e). 34. The fate of the soul which Socrates relates to Phaedrus is distinguished from the cosmic myth of reward and punishment that Socrates relates at the conclusion of the Gorgias by the conspicuous absence of any detailed description of punishment; this absence makes good sense in a conversation which explicitly treats the art of rhetoric in connection with the experience of eros, in contrast with its treatment in the Gorgias as "useful only in the service of justice" (527c). Over against the external punishment required for the guarantee of justice, the focus on the experience o ferns in the Phaedrus may account for the presentation of reward and punishment as simply a continuation of a life "worthy of that led in human form" (Phaedrus 249b). 35. "These pseudo-wholes [i.e., varieties of political regimes, each of which claims to satisfy completely the nature of man], moreover, have their counterpart in Socrates' second speech in the Phaedrus, where the false completeness of each human soul is due to its following its own god and thus turning away from the ideas. The human soul, though infected by the ideas, does not, even in the best cases, go directly back to the ideas; it is always directed by eros away from the ideas and toward its own god, even though without eros it could not go to the ideas." Seth Benardete, "On Plato's Timaeus and Timaeus' Science Fiction," pp. 50-51. 36. Socrates seems to speak in the language of the mysteries in describing the "holy

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sights" seen by soul in tfie pure light unencumbered by the body. Cf. Phaedo 66a, 67a, 69c, i09d~110a. 37. Cf. Aristotle Nichomachean Ethics 9.12, 1171b29-32. 38. "The beautiful is not what pleases, but what falls within that fateful gift of truth which comes to be when that which is eternally non-apparent and therefore invisible attains its most radiantly apparent appearance." Martin Heidegger, What is Called Thinking?, trans. J. Glenn Gray and F. Wieck, Lecture 2, p. 19. 39. The amazement (ekplettontai) of the lover in the presence of the beautiful echoes Socrates' declaration of his amazement (elkplagenai) at Phaedrus's brightness as he reads the speech of Lysias (234d), and foreshadows his description of the fate of the cicada tribe, overcome (exeplagesan) by the pleasure of song at the birth of the Muses (259b). 40. On the image of sexual love which flows through the eyes, see Euripides Hip-

poly tus 525, 41. Richard B. Onians traces the development of the language of "liquefying and melting" to describe sexual love, citing Homer, Anacreon, Alcmaeon, and the Homeric Hymn to Pan. He suggests the etymological connection between erao, "I love," and erao, used in compounds meaning "I pour out." The Origins of European Thought about the

Body, the Mind, the Soul, the World, Time, and Fate, p. 202. 42. Marsilio Ficino attempts to justify the need for an allegorical interpretation of the imagery of the Phaedrus by quoting the observation of Nicolfonus, a contemporary English scholar: "A man finds there so much of the eron and the eromenos, with such odd allusions to that execrable vice, that one had need of a very vertuous thoughts and a very charitable mind to allegorize all the strange metaphors of that discourse into a chaste meaning." Quoted in Marsilio Ficino, Platonis philosophi quae exstant, vol. 10, p. vii. 43. In accepting the conflict between the madness of eros and the moderation necessary for the polis as the unifying thread of the three speeches, Socrates would seem to agree with Aristotle, that "he who is unable to live in the city, who has no need because he is sufficient to himself, must be either a beast or a god, and not part of the city" (Politics 1.2, 1253a27-29). 44. In his state of inspiration in the Cratylus, Socrates lays down the principle that the gods call things by the naturally conect names (391e); since, however, he later attests that we know nothing of the gods themselves nor of the names which they call themselves (400d), Socrates decides to investigate men and the opinions guiding them in the giving of names. 45. Socrates, describing the burden of the pteronumos, seems to speak in a language falling somewhere between that of the gods (pterota) and that of men (erofa potenon, c f 252c). 46. To elaborate this principle, Socrates chooses only four examples: the followers of Zeus seek a "philosophic and ruling nature," those of Ares become murderous when feeling wronged, those of Hera seek a "kingly one," while those of Apollo are only mentioned, without further description (2 52c—255b). The apparently arbitrary choice of these four gods who inspire human eros recalls the apparently arbitrary collection of forms of divine madness with which Socrates began his speech. 47. Cf. Aristophanes' speech on eros in the Symposium (192e-193a): "For the cause of it is that our original nature was as I described and we were whole; the desire and pursuit of that whole is called eros." 48. An illustration of this paradox emerges in Timaeus's account of the relation of the demiurge to the cosmos he arranges: while the demiurge is said to have the eternal model

141 Notes to Chapter III in mind as a pattern of the whole, he is described as being without jealousy, therefore desiring to make the copy more like himself (Timdeus 29d-e). 49. Aristotle speaks of the friend as another self, of the good man's relation to himself as that of friendship, of the general tendency to liken the extreme of friendship to self-love; he points to a transformation of the negative implications of self-love by identifying the "love of self' of the good man with the love of virtue (Nichomachiean Ethics 9.4, 1166a 10 ff). 50. Cf. Phaedrus 240c; Lysis 214a; Protagoras 337d; Symposium 195b; Republic 329a; Lctws 716c, 837a; Aristotle Nichomachean Ethics 8.1; Aristotle Rhetoric 2.4. 51. Cf. Ion 536c. 52. C f Sophist 222d-e. 53. The dark horse exhibits the impulsive power of eros, but in his angry reproaches, in his reviling of the others for cowardice and unmanliness in deserting their post and breaking their agreement, he seems to exhibit the characteristics of thumos as well; the white horse, who exhibits less willfulness, must be classed with his partner as an erastes, for he too moves toward the beloved and must be pulled back by the charioteer through an appeal to shame. Socrates' etkon thus seems to deny the validity of the common assumption of the identity between the tripartite division of soul in the Republic (436a ff.) and that in the Phaedrus, in which the dark horse would represent eras, the white horse thumos, and the charioteer logistikos; by indicating this tension, and thus suggesting that the division of the soul may depend upon the context in which it is considered, Socrates again casts doubt on the possibility of fulfilling the conditions laid down for a true art of speaking, based on knowledge of the simplicity and complexity of soul (cf. 271a, 271d, 273d, 277b-c).

54. Cf. Theaetetus 143e. 55. The white horse struggles against the dark one's compulsion toward what is finally called "the terrible" and "the unlawful," but was first called "contrary to nature" (cf. 251a and 254b). 56. And the problem of the unity of these parts seems to depend upon an understanding of the suppressed unity of body and soul, In Timaeus's account of the creation of man, the unity of soul is assumed for the immortal and divine principle, while the divided and mortal soul arises only in connection with the body; it is, indeed, the actual structure of the body which accounts for the division of the soul (Timaeus 69e-70a). 57. In his speech about Socrates, offered as a substitute for another speech about eros, Alcibiades mentions himself as being one among other young men who have found Socrates' way of loving so deceitful that he appears as beloved rather than as lover. See Symposium 222b. 58. Cf. Laws 837a-b. 59. Cf. Lysis 214<3; Aristotle Nichomachean Ethics 8.3, 1156b23-25. 60. Zeus, the beloved, who previously represented the source for the stream of desire flowing over the lover (253a), is now the lover, who, when in love with Ganymede, named that stream "desire" (himeron, 255c). 61. Socrates seems to recall Empedocles, for whom "all things that have come into being are continually giving off effluences" (Fragment 89). The particularity of the stream of beauty flowing between lover and beloved would be like Empedocles' stream of perception, where only the particular effluences of certain objects fit the passages of certain sense organs. This interaction of like things is the basis for Empedocles' analysis of nature and of human thought, for "all those things which are more suitable for mixture aremade liV*

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one another, united through friendship by-Aphrodite" (Fragment 22). See The Presocratic Philosophers, ed. G. S. Kirk and J. E. Raven, p. 343. 62. "Being loved men delight in for its own sake, so it would seem better than being honored and friendship would seem desirable in i t s e l f . . . . But this seems to lie more in loving than in being loved, as is indicated by the delight of mothers in loving" (Aristotle Nichomachean Ethics 8.3, 1159a25-bl). 63. "In the end one loves one's desire and not what is desired" (Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, trans. Walter Kaufmann, p. 175).

Chapter V 1. "Tous les sujets du dialogue, themes et interlocuteurs, semblent epuises au moment ou le supplement, lecriture ou, si 1'on veut, le pharmakon, sont introduits" (Derrida, "La Pharmacie de Platon," p. 82). Derrida compares this "supplementary" treatment of the nature of writing, which is actually the central problem, with the treatment of writing by Saussure in the Cours, Rousseau in the Essay on the Origin of Language, and Hegel in

the Encyclopedia. 2. Cf. Protagoras 316d-e. 3. Cf. Parmenides 128a-e. 4. Cf. Sophist 229c, 267b-268a. 5. Cf. Symposium 209d-e. 6. Cf. Statesman 294b. 7. Cf. Cleon's speech in Thucydides' Mytilenian debate, History of the Peloponnesian War 3.38.7. 8. When Theodorus makes the same statement to Socrates, "Well, we have leisure, have we not, Socrates?" (Theaetetus 172c), Socrates enters into a digression comparing the Jife and speech of the man brought up in the law courts, the slave for whom speech is a matter of survival, and that of the man whom Theodorus calls "the philosopher," the free man for whom speech is a matter of complete leisure. But Socrates in fact introduces his digression while he is thinking of the urgent question of his coming trial before the Athenian demos. Phaedrus, like Theodorus, sees his apparent leisure as a sign of his true freedom. 9. Perhaps Plato has in mind Aristophanes' image: "Aye, the cicadas chirp upon the boughs one month or two, / But our Athenians chirp over their lawsuits all their whole life long" (Birds 39-41). 10. If Hesiod admits the power of just judgment to be a gift to men from the Muses (see Theogony 75-103), he indicates, at the same time, the deceptive danger of the gifts of the Muses (cf. Theogony 22-34). 11. The favors of the highest Muses, granted to those who pass their lives in philosophy, are specifically separated from those of Erato (granted to love poets), and from those of Terpsichore (granted to those who honor her in choruses, 259c); Socrates seems to distinguish the poetry of Stesichorus, and that of the love speeches in general, from,the activity of "logos divine and human," 12. Cf, Phaedo 60e-61a. 13. It is precisely at noon, when the Athenian Stranger and his interlocuters seek shade from the midday sun, that they discuss the proper form of law as a balance between slavery and freedom, through the mediation of persuasion {Laws 722c~d). 14. H i rough the myth of the cicadas, the irony of Socrates' divine inspiration comes to

143 Notes to Chapter III light; for the depiction of philosophy as enthusiasm is not a teaching but an image, whose irony is established by the very logos in which that image is so artfully controlled. See Hermann Gundert, Platon Studien, p. 22. 15. Cf. Republic 493a-c. 16. Cf. Aristotle Rhetoric 1.1, 1355a20-b8. 17. In his discussion with Gorgias on the art of rhetoric, Socrates divides the class of persuasion into that which produces belief without knowledge and that which accomplishes the production of knowledge through instruction. See Gorgias 454e. 18. Cf, Aristotle's division of the whole of rhetoric into deliberative (sumbouleutikon), forensic (dikanikoti), and epideictic (epideiktikon). Rhetoric 1.3, 1 3 5 8 b l - 3 0 . 19. In the Odyssey, the act of psuchagogia is attributed to Hermes, god of speech, who uses his golden wand to cast a spell on men's eyes or to wake them from the soundest sleep. Practicing this art, Hermes gathers the souls of the suitors and brings them to the dwelling place of disembodied souls (24.1). The function of "leading souls with words" is precisely the description Isocrates offers for his own art of writing (Evagoras lOa-b). See Appendix, "Isocrates the Beautiful."

20. Cf. Parmenides 129e. 21. For the rhetorical skill of Nestor and Odysseus, see Iliad 1.249, 3.216 ff.; Socrates seems to half-heartedly agree with Phaedrus's guess that Nestor must represent Gorgias, while Odysseus stands for Thrasymachus or Theodorus (261c), but he is more interested in examining the meaning of their "art of contention" than who they are. 22. Socrates attributes to the gods of the place and the prophets o f the Muses (262d) the good fortune of having the "two speeches" (dual number). In comparing the absence of a definition of eros in the speech of Lysias with its presence in the beginning of his own speech (singular), he assigns the art of his speech to the nymphs, daughters of Achelous, and to Pan, son of Hermes (263e). 23. The same replacement is suggested by the conclusion of the .dialogue, where Socrates and Phaedrus agree to deliver to "the writers in the city" the message from the "fountain of the nymphs and the Muses" (278c). 24. The deliberate use of ambiguity as a means of simultaneously concealing and revealing is analyzed in Leo Strauss's discussion of Maimonides' doctrine of "speech spoken fitfully," "according to two faces," which can be externally useful for communication to the many, and internally useful for expressing knowledge of the truth. See Leo Strauss, Persecution and the Art of Writing, p, 71. 25. Eros cannot be defined in the context of Socrates' second speech because it is the encompassing whole in terms of which everything else is defined. Sec Sinaiko, Love,

Knowledge, and Discourse in Plato, p. 101. 26. Cf. Statesman 277b-c; Gorgias 505d; Philebus 66d; Laws 752a; Timaeus 32c-34b. 27. "Love has long been called a tyrant," Socrates explains to Glaucon and Adeimautus, in accounting for the nature of the tyrannical man as determined by the tyranny of desire (Republic 573b). 28. Socrates' acknowledgment of the playfulness of his mythic hymn foreshadows his demand for acknowledgment by the philosophic writer of the necessary playfulness of his own creation (cf. 277e-278d), "The more Plato discloses of truth for the understanding reader, the more he denotes the conversation as paidia." Hermann Gundert, Zum Spiel bei Platon, quoted in G. J. DeVries, A Commentary on the Phaedrus of Plato, p. 20. 29. This tension may be indicated by the fact that, in his playful state of inspiration, Socrates mentions only the Muses as authors of divine possession (245a), whereas, in his

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critical analysis of the speech, he claims to have ascribed the fourfold division of prophecy, mystic rites, poetry, and eros to the "four" gods: Apollo, Dionysus, the Muses, and Aphrodite and Eros (265b), 30. It is easier to understand Socrates' abstract analysis of the principles of dialectics as a standard for evaluation of the claims of the rhetoricians than as an account of the way Socrates himself proceeds in conversation, or of the way in which the Platonic dialogue is constructed as an imitation of Socratic conversation. The various accounts of the principles of dialectics presented in several Platonic dialogues do not seem to be identical with each other, insofar, perhaps, as each is implicitly colored by the context of the discussion in which it arises; at the same time, however, it is never immediately obvious how each of these formal and abstract analyses is exemplified in the conversation it is presumably intended to clarify. See Republic 51 lb—d; Sophist 253b—e; Statesman 285a-c; Philebus 16c-17a; cf. Phaedo 99d-102a. 31. Phaedrus speaks for the physicians Eryximachus and Acumenus when he gives his opinion of the man who knows the mere techniques of medicine: "They would say, I think, that the man was mad when, hearing from a book or happening upon drugs, he believed himself to be a physician, understanding nothing of the art" (268c); Phaedrus unintentionally makes fun of his own character while anticipating the theme of the relation between genuine knowledge and the doxosophia of the written word which is like an artificial drug. 32. After mentioning two contemporary physicians and two contemporary tragedians, Socrates couples Pericles with the legendary Adrastus, perhaps concealing a reference to a contemporary rhetorician (Phaedrus surmised a reference to Gorgias and Thrasymachus or Theodorus in Socrates' mention of Nestor and Odysseus, 261b), More important than these playful polemics, however, is Socrates' interest in establishing a paradigm for the rhetorician: "Not even if he were more kingly than Pelops and had the mellifluous tongue of Adrastus" (Tyrtaeus, Fr. 8, v. 8, in Theodor Bergk, Poetae lyrici graeti). 33. In establishing the conditions for the true art of rhetoric, Plato puts into Socrates' mouth the echo of the claim announced by Isocrates; but while Isocrates demands natural ability, practice, and the examples set by a good teacher (Against the Sophists 10), Socrates demands natural ability, practice, and knowledge (Phaedrus 269d). See Appendix, "Isocrates the Beautiful." 34. Socrates' present praise for Pericles could be contrasted with his condemning Pericles in the Gorgias for failing to fulfill the function of the rhetorician in taming the demos (515e). This contrast should be understood in light of the distinction between the function of rhetoric described to Callicles as an activity of punishing (Gorgias 527c), and its present analogy with the art of healing. But Socrates' acousation against Pericles for making the Athenians "idle, cowardly, talkative, and greedy" (Gorgias 515e) seems to echo his present praise of Pericles' education by the "idle talk and meteorologizing" of Anaxagoras. When Pericles is given credit as a great rhetorician and leader, he is simultaneously held up as a model for the nonteachability of virtue. Cf. Protagoras 319e; Meno 94b. 35. In a discussion about the usefulness of cosmological knowledge for political practice in De re publica of Cicero, Scipio relates the story of the eclipse during the Peloponnesian War which overwhelmed the Athenians with terror until Pericles, "supreme in influence, eloquence, and wisdom," gave his countrymen information received from Anaxagoras about the regularity of the phenomenon, freeing the people from their fears (De re publica 1.16.25).

145 Notes to Chapter III 36. Cf. Apology 18b-c, 19b-c, 23b. 37. Unlike the scheme of the Gorgias (465c), where rhetoric is a spurious art, related to justice with regard to the treatment of the soul as cooking is to medicine with regard to the treatment of the body, rhetoric in the Phaedrus is treated as a genuine art, analogous to that of healing. 38. Aristotle questions whether the investigation of virtue requires knowledge of the soul alone or of the man as a whole on the basis of the analogy between politics and medicine, with an equally ambiguous conclusion (Nichomachean Ethics 1.13, 1102a 13-2 5). 39. When Socrates offers to cure Charm ides of his headache by the use of a magical charm whose physical effects require the prior treatment of the soul, he justifies his procedure by the principle of the Thracian physicians of Zalmoxis, who have taught him that knowledge of the part requires knowledge of the whole, and that health in the body can be achieved only on the basis of health in the soul (Charmides 156d-157c). 40. The reflection of this tension is suggested in Socrates' eikon of the soul as a winged chariot-team where the unexamined assumption of the separation of soul from body paradoxically results in an image of the parts of the soul without mention of the whole (cf. 246a). 41. Cf. Aristotle Rhetoric 1.2, 1356a ff. 42. It is precisely in the context of a discussion on the question of the simplicity or complexity of soul that Socrates affirms, "from these methods which we are now using in these speeches, we shall never accurately grasp this, as it seems to me, for another longer and fuller road leads to this; but perhaps we can speak of it in a manner worthy of our preceeding discussion" (Republic 43 5d, cf. 504a-b). 43. The human lover, whose desire for the beloved was condemned by the nonlover as the appetite of the wolf for the lamb, has now become the rhetorician who practices an art of persuasion based on mere opinion, Socrates perhaps has in mind his own imagefor the rhetorician Thrasymachus. See Republic 336d. 44. In his discussion of spurious enthymemes, Aristotle attributes this doctrine of "false probability" to Corax, condemning it for the deceitful omission of necessary qualifications. Through the same example which Socrates now analyzes, of the weakling tried for violent assault, Aristotle claims to illustrate the justification for the charge against "making the worse argument appear the better" (Rhetoric 2.24, 1402a 15-27).

Chapter VI 1. See the section entitled "Subjects and Purposes of the Dialogue" in the introduction of R. Hackforth, Plato's Phaedrus. That the final discussion on the principles of artful writing is indeed no extraneous appendage to the main theme of the dialogue Hackforth rightly acknowledges—only, however, because that discussion issues in "an exaltation of the spoken words of dialectic" (p. 164). The discussion is therefore subordinate to the real unity of the dialogue, constituted by its chief purpose, "to vindicate the pursuit of philosophy as the true culture of the soul by contrast with the false claim of contemporary rhetoric to provide that culture" (p. 9). But the recognition of this purpose—which may indeed make it no longer necessary to ask whether the main subject of the dialogue is love or rhetoric (p. 9)—does not, in itself, account for the apparently self-contradictory status of a written imitation of a Socratic defense of philosophy based on a condemnation of the written word. Vindication of the pursuit of philosophy as the unifying purpose .of the

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Notes to Chapter III

dialogue must rather be ^self-unification by the dialogue through its self-defense as a philosophic writing. 2. Cf. Republic 473a. 3. See Timaeus 23a. 4. See Laws 656d-e; Herodotus Histories Book II. 5. See Herodotus Histories 2.78. 6. See Timaeus 24a-b; Statesman 290e; Isocrates Busiris 15. 7. See Herodotus Histories 2.144. 8. See Laws 747c. 9. See Herodotus Histories 2.2, 4, 51, 53, 58. 10. See Herodotus Histories 2.8-88. 11. Timaeus 22b. 12. See Aristotle Metaphysics 1.1, 982b23-24; Isocrates Busiris 21-22. 13. Republic 436a. 14. Diodorus Siculus offers several possible explanations for the Egyptian representation of gods as animals. See Library of History 1.86-87. The dialogue between Theuth and Thamuz would look like a conversation between an ibis and a ram. See Herodotus Histories 2.42. Plutarch explains that the ibis is the symbol of Theuth/Hermes because the "ibis reed" is the instrument for writing letters (Questionum Convivialum 9,3.2). 15. See Herodotus Histories 2.144. 16. See Herodotus Histories 2.153. 17. The Athenian Stranger speaks of the well-governed Egyptians as a model for the desired stability of a political regime, which is to be achieved through the consecration of all dancing and music as if it were an immutable divine code. See Lows 657a. 18. See Excursus: Writing Like the Painting of Living Animals. 19. Cf. Philebus 16c, 18b. 20. Cf. Timaeus 21e. According to Harold Innis, the opening of the Egyptian ports to Greek trade, particularly that of Naucratis around 650 B.C., introduced the Greeks to papyrus, which provided an efficient material for the growing influence of the art of writing. See Empire and Communication, p. 628. 21. Theuth, god of the moon, is the secretary-herald of Ammon-Ra, god of the sun; if Ammon is the supreme god of the "creative word," Theuth is the secondary god, responsible for the differentiation of languages as well as for the art of writing. See Derrida, "La Pharmacie de Platon," p. 100. 22. The "user," who knows the function of something, recognizes its true nature, cf. Republic 601d ff.; Cratylus 390b; Euthydemus 289b; Aristotle Politics 3.11, 1282a20-23. But the god-king who judges the art of writing is precisely the one who has no use for it! 23. The supremacy of Ammon after 1600 : B.C. was an indication of the ascendancy of Theban political rule in Egypt. See Innis, Empire and Communication, p. 20. 24. See Herodotus Histories 2.15. 25. See Plutarch Oflsis and Osiris 358c-d. 26. See Herodotus Histories 2.42, 27. In the course of investigating the Egyptian origin of the Greek gods, Herodotus reports a legend about the identity of the oracle of Zeus at Dodona with that of Ammon in the Egyptian Thebes; after telling the story related by the Egyptian priests of Thebes, Herodotus reports an interesting variation related by the prophetesses of Dodona, followed by his own explanation. See Histories 2. 53—58. 28. Although Socrates does not define the unity of the arts discovered by Theuth, the

147 Notes to Chapter III link between the art of letters and numbers, calculation, geometry, and astronomy may be the discovery of "draughts and dice," particularly in light of its removal from the sphere of necessity. For the metaphoric significance of "draughts and dice," see Republic 487c, 604c; Lam 739a, 820d, 903d; Hipparchus 229e. 29. "Science et magie, passage entre vie et mort, supplement du mal et du manque; la medecine devait constituer le domaine privilegie de Thot. Tous ses pouvoirs s'y resumaient et trouvaient h s'y employer. Le dieu de 1'ecriture, qui sait mettre fin il la vie, guerit aussie les malades. Et meme les morts" (Derrida, "La Pharmacie de Platon," p. 106). 30. The ignorance which Theuth displays about the potential crime that lies hidden within the art he wishes to bestow on men seems to be based on his lack of understanding of human nature; the justification of his condemnation by Thamuz-Ammon is most appropriately reflected, therefore, in the justification of Prometheus's punishment by Zeus, represented in Aeschylus's Prometheus Bound, for Prometheus's ignorance of human nature makes him blind to the fact that his crimes—his rescue of men from annihilation, his gift of blind hopes, and of fire—are inseparable from the arts he bestows on men. See Seth Benardete, "The Crimes and Arts of Prometheus." 31. The art of "mnemonics," which the sophist Hippias, "wisest of men in the greatest number of arts," holds in highest esteem, does not seem able to help him discover the relation between the "true man" and the "false man." See Hippias Minor 368a-d. 32. Treatment by artificial drugs would be a dangerous interference, not only with the natural life span of an animal, but even with the natural rhythm of its disease (Timaeus 89a-c). 33. The Egyptian word for writing (ndw-ntr) literally means "speech of the gods." See I. J. Gelb, A Study of Writing, p. 231. 34. The art of medicine possessed by Theuth makes him the fitting deity to preside over the preparation of the corpse, and by association, over the funeral ceremony itself. In connection with this function, and as the discoverer of the numbers, he is the god who "measures the duration of the lives of gods and men." S. Morenz, La Religion Egyptienne, cited in Derrida, "La Pharmacie de Platon," p. 104. 35. On the ambivalent nature (or absence of nature) of the pharmakon, see Protagoras 354a; Philebus 54c; Timaeus 89c; Phaedo 63d-e; Cratylus 394b; Alcibiades I 132b; Critias 106b; Statesman 310a; Republic 382c, 459c, 595b; Laws 649a-b, 845d-e, 957d; Charmides 15 5e—157c. 36. Cf. Sophist 229c.

37. Cf. Apology 3Id.

38. In reminding the Athenian demos that he is no different from any of them, having particular parents and children of his own, even though he refuses to bring them forth for sympathy (Apology 34d), Socrates recalls the fictitious tale Odysseus offers to Penelope when she presses him to reveal his own origin: "For you did not spring from oak or rock, like the man in the old story" (Odyssey 19.163). 39. The opposite reversal seems to be illustrated, not accidentally, by the analysis of the written law which the Eleatic Stranger provides for young Socrates. The written law is identified as an imitation of the regime governed by knowledge, while the unchangeableness of the prohibition against violating the written law seems to make it the human equivalent to the divine standard of rule by knowledge; but the Stranger's argument goes on to suggest that the law, which looks hubristic, is, in the absencc of divine rule, a human necessity, therefore a product of moderation. See Statesman 294c-301e, . ,

148

Notes to Chapter III

40. Consider Spinoza'^ description of the requirements for the interpretation of a scriptural statement, concluding with the demand for an analysis revealing the environment of the subject, that is, the life, conduct, and studies of the author of each book, who he was, the occasion and the epoch of his writing, for whom he wrote, and in what language, as well as an analysis of the fate of each book, A Theological-Political Treatise, trans, R. H. M. Elwes, p. 108. 41. Cf. Cratylus 424d-4Z5b, 430b-431e. 42. See Excursus: Writing Like the Painting of Living Animals. 43. Cf, Phaedo 99d-100a. 44. The model of the alphabet is used in the dialogues (1) as a paradigm for the question of knowledge of combined wholes without knowledge of their elementary parts (Theaetetus 202e); (2) as analogous to the ideas and their combination (Sophist 253a); (3) as the paradigm of a paradigm (Statesman 277d-278d); (4) as evidence for the use of an image to obtain knowledge of the original (Republic 402a-c); (5) as a model for the relation between name and being (Cratylus 393d); (6) as an image for the elements and syllabic compounds of the physical cosmos (Timaeus 48c); and (7) as an exemplification of the path Socrates claims to follow, based on the attempt to divide the infinite into a determinate multiplicity of kinds, insofar as alphabetization divides the infinite stream of sound and allows for the representation of the vocal syllable by weaving together the sounded vowel and the silent consonant, each given an image in the form of the letter (Philebus 18b-c). See Excursus: Writing Like the Painting of Living Animals. 45. Pico dela Mirandola describes hieroglyphic writing through an analogy with the Platonic dialogue: "Our Plato, in the same sense, concealed his own beliefs behind enigmatic veils, symbols or myths, mathematical images and obscure arguments, to such an extent that he said in his letters that nobody could understand his thoughts on matters divine" (Heptalus 73, trans. Douglas Carmichael), See Excursus: Writing Like the Painting of Living Animals. 46. That the Greeks did not know the true nature of Egyptian hieroglyphics but considered them images of ideas is argued by Friedrich Creuzer, who, like Herder, describes a progression of the human mind from the symbolism of visual imagery through mythology to discursivc thinking. Plato, he claims, discovered a new combination, retaining in the midst of discursive thinking the value of hieroglyphic symbolism, that mode which exists "at the beginning of time, and always at the heart of truth" (Symbolik und Mythologie der A/ten Volker, pp. 563 ff., 680-82). See Excursus: Writing Like the Painting of Living Animals. 47. In the Statesman, the Eleatic Stranger classes, in contrast with the one true regime governed by knowledge, all its "illegitimate" immitations (293e). The one regime which is "legitimate," that is, in accordance with law, is in fact defined by the absence of written law, for it can be brought to life only through the seemingly paradoxical "law of knowledge."

48. Cf. Theaetetus 150c. 49. Cf. Apology 31b. 50. The discussion of tragedy and comedy in the Philebus (49c) seems to suggest a connection between the activity of writing and the desire to defend oneself. Socrates' abstincncc from writing might, then, betray the same lack of concern for self-defense as his professed abstinence from the practice of rhetoric. Cf. Gorgias 522b.

51. Cf. Sophist 241d. 52. Cf. Phaedo 116a. 53. Identifying the legitimate logos as the "living and breathing word of the speaker,"

149 Notes to Chapter III Phaedrus speaks in the words of the sophist Alcidamus. See "On the Sophists, or on The Writing of Written Speeches," trans. LaRue Van Hook, in "Alcidamus versus Isocrates: The Spoken versus the Written Word." See also Appendix, "Isocrates the Beautiful." 54. Evidence of Adonis as god of vegetation is furnished by the so-called "gardens of Adonis," pots filled with earth, in which various kinds of grains or flowers were sown and tended for eight days, chiefly by women. Fostered by the sun's heat, the plants shot up rapidly, but, having no roots, they withered just as rapidly, and at the end of eight days were carried out with the image of the dead Adonis and flung into the sea. See Sir James George Frazer, The Golden Bough, p. 341. 55. In the course of relating the arguments of the atheists to his pious interlocuters, the Athenian Stranger distinguishes those arts which can produce something serious through sharing their effects with nature, such as medicine, agriculture, and gymnastics, from those arts which beget only playthings, such as the images produced by painting, music, and the others (Laws 889c-d). Man himself, however, has been identified as nothing but a "plaything" of the gods (Laws 644e). 56. In the course of describing his own art of midwifery, Socrates argues with Theaetetus that the same art provides knowledge of the proper seed for any given soil as well as knowledge of tending and harvesting the fruit produced (Theaetetus 149e). 57. The imprints left by the writer must be recognized as images no less than the imprints of memory on the "wax block" of the soul, which Socrates compares to footprints waiting to be filled in order to produce recognition (Theaetetus 193c); perhaps Socrates imagines an enactment on the stage of the soul of the famous recognition scene in AeschyWs Choephori (205 ff). 58. Cf. Gorgias 454e. 59. Whether or not it is written by the hand of Plato, the Seventh Letter, with its account of the limitations of the written word, would not contradict this interpretation of the Phaedrus as a Platonic defense of the possibility of philosophic writing. For the conclusion of the discussion in the Seventh Letter argues only that if the writer himself is a serious man, his most serious products are not the written words themselves, but those which reside in "his most beautiful space" (344c), without denying the serious value of the written words as a "reminder" of those "most serious" products of living thought. The Second Letter, which is even less generally accepted as a genuine work of Plato, admits only that the written works said to be of Plato are in fact those of "Socrates become young and beautiful" (314c).

60. Cf. Philebus 39a. 61. Soul as the "mother" of logoi grown from the seeds of knowledge would be equivalent to Timaeus's "mother space" as the receptacle of the cosmic elements, apprehensible only by a kind of "bastard reasoning" (Timaeus 52b). See Benardete, "On Plato's Timaeus and Timaeus' Science Fiction," p. 39. 62. So Aristophanes concludes the Thesmophoriasuzae (1227), another paidia .of speeches concerned in some sense with the art of writing. 63. That the "unwritten teaching" which constitutes that truth more noble and more serious than the playful written word is a "beyond" which is already within the dialogue as a philosophic text, is a claim which might be contested by that approach which seeks the ungeschriebene Lehre through historic or speculative reconstruction, depending in part on the doctrines reported in Aristotelian or doxographic sources. See Konrad Gaiser, Platons ungeschriebene Lehre, pp. 337, 588; Hans Joachim Kramer, Arete bei Platon und Aris-

toteles, pp. 394 ff.

150

Notes to the Appendix

64. Cf. Apology 21c, ^2c; Gorgias 502b; Republic 568c, 599b, 606e; Laws 659c, 829c-d, 957d, 65. Although Plato does not elsewhere explicitly mention Isocrates among Socrates' companions, Plutarch reports that Isocrates was deeply grieved at Socrates' death and put on mourning for him (Lives of the Ten Orators 838f). 66. For a discussion of Isocrates' defense of his rhetorical art of writing, and the concealed thread of Plato's dialogue with Isocrates that runs through the Phaedrus, see Appendix, "Isocrates the Beautiful." 67. In his conversation with Hermogenes, Socrates concludes his series of etymologies of the names of the gods with an analysis of Pan, the double-natured son of Hermes, discoverer of speech (Cratylus 408b). Since "logos indicates and circulates and moves all, and is twofold, true and false. . . and the true part is smooth and divine and dwells aloft among the gods, but the false is below and among men and rough and tragic [goatlike], for myths and falsehoods are mostly there, in the tragic life," Pan must be correctly called goatherd, "smooth in the upper, rough and goatlike in the lower" (Cratylus 408c-d). The Phaedrus would seem, then, to conclude playfully with a prayer for the harmony of outer appearance with inner beauty from Socrates-Hermes, messenger of the gods, interpreter and discoverer of speech, to Plato-Pan, his double-natured, divine, and goatlike son, 68. Socrates' prayer to Pan recalls Alcibiades' likening of Socrates to the Silenus figures in the statuaries, which contain, hidden inside their ugly exterior, agalmata of the gods (Symposium 215a—217a; 222a); insofar as Alcibiades' apparent praise of Socrates' moderation turns out to be an accusation against his hubris (cf. 222a-b), Alcibiades' image is most fittingly echoed in Socrates' concluding prayer to Pan. 69. Cf. Republic 521a, 551a; Laws 705b, 742e, 831c, 836a, 919b; Aristotle Politics 2.11, 1273a35-39. 70. Represented by Lysias, Epicrates, and Morychus in the heart of the city. 71. Cf. Republic 4I6c-417b, 464c-d. 72. Cf. Lysis 207c; Critias 121a; Laws 739c-d.

Appendix 1. In the fictitious apology for his life and work composed at the end of his career, Isocrates considers the opinion of his would-be accuser: "If, therefore, 1 would agree with my accuser that I am the cleverest of all men and that among writers of the speeches offensive to you there is none who is my equal, it would be more just to consider me fair than to punish me" (Antidosis 36). Dionysius reports that Isocrates was the most famous teacher of his time and made his school "the image of Athens" (Critique on Isocrates 1). Cf. Jebb, The Attic Orators, vol. 2, p. 13. : 2. That this description in the Euthydemus is a reference to Isocrates is confirmed by the remarks which immediately precede and follow it, The passage is introduced by Crito's report to Socrates of a conversation with a "writer of clever speeches," though not a rhetorician nor an advocate in the law courts, who describes philosophy as "worth nothing," pursued by those "who speak frivolously about nothing" (304a). In the sequel to the passage Socrates claims, "We ought to be indulgent toward their desire and not feel annoyed, while still judging them to be what they are" (306c), echoing the words of Isocrates himself. Cf. Panegyricus 47; To Philip 116-18. 3. Isocrates himself repudiates his youthful activity of writing speeches for private clicnts in the law courts. See Antidosis 46.

151 Notes to the Appendix 4. Cf. ToDionysius 1; To Philip 2.4; To Antipater 13; To Alexander 1; To the children of Jason 6; To Timotheus 10; Antidosis 9; Evagoras 73; Panathenaicus 4; Philip 2, 10-12, 149. 5. It is generally agreed that Isocrates was probably at least sixty, perhaps closer to seventy years old, at the time the Phaedrus was written. See DeVries, Commentary on the Phaedrus of Plato, p. 17. 6. See Evagoras 11; Antidosis 36, 81-84. For Isocrates' professed devotion to "philosophy," see Antidosis 5, 186. 7. See Helen 11. 8. Gorgias in 408 B.C. and Lysias in 384 B.C. delivered speeches at the Olympic festival on the theme of pan-Hellenism; it has been argued that the Panegyricus was published around 300 B.C., but was probably not delivered by Isocrates, if at all. See Isocrates, vol. 1, Loeb Classical Library, p. 119. 9. Cf. Aristotle Metaphysics 1.1, 980a21. 10. See To Demom'cus 4; Nicocles or the Cyprians 1-2; Evagoras 81; Antidosis 2 7 0 270a, 284; Panathenaicus 30-32. 11. For an examination of Isocrates' defense of rhetoric as the center of political philosophy and the model for the virtue of sdphrosune, necessitated by the heterogeneity of theory and practice, see Alan Bloom, "The Political Philosophy of Isocrates," pp. 213 ff. 12. After refuting the claims of those with special skills in the arts and sciences, Isocrates sets forth his own identification of the "educated": "First, those who manage well the affairs they encounter daily, possessing opinions effective for the occasion and able to surmise what is advantageous for the most part; next, those who are decent and just in their associations, bearing contentedly and easily what is annoying and oppressive in others, being themselves agreeable and moderate to their associates as far as possible; furthermore, those who rule over their pleasures and are not excessively overwhelmed by their misfortunes, but are disposed to meet them bravely in a manner worthy of our shared nature; fourthly, and most important, those who are not destroyed by successes, not retiring into themselves and becoming arrogant, but holding their ground in a wellordered manner and reasonably, not overly rejoicing in goods which come by chance rather than in those coming from their own nature and reason from the beginning. Those who possess a state of soul harmonious not only with one but with all of these, those, I say, are wise and perfect men and possess all the virtues" (Panathenaicus 30-32). 13. "Indeed, honors and distinctions are gained not by rest but by struggles, which we should strive to win, and neither our bodies nor our souls nor anything else we possess should be spared" (Archidamus 105). 14. See Against the Sophists 2. 15. Cf. Friedrich Blass, Die attische Beredsamkeit, vol. 2, p. 14. 16. "But the truth is that in speeches of this kind we should not seek something new, for in these speeches it is not possible to say what is paradoxical or incredible or outside the circle of accepted belief, but rather, we should regard that man as the most accomplished in this field who can collect the greatest number of ideas scattered among the thoughts of all the rest and present them most beautifully" (To Nicocles 41). 17. Isocrates' light-hearted reference to a eulogy of salt as an example of "trivial subjects" (Helen 12), is mimicked by Plato when Eryximachus speaks for Phaedrus, lover of speeches, complaining about the absence of eulogies for Eros, in comparison with the abundance of speeches of praise such as the one he knows about salt (Symposium 177b). 18. "For I say that to acquire knowledge of the elements from which we compose all

152

Notes to the Appendix

speeches is not very difficult, if someone gives himself over not to those who easily promise, but to those knowing about these; but the choice of what elements are to be employed for each subject, the ability to join together and properly arrange the whole, not missing what the occasion demands but adorning the speech with striking thoughts and clothing it in flowing phrases—these, I say, require much study and are the deed of a courageous and shrewd soul" (Against the Sophists 17). 19. "For ability, in speeches or in any other deeds, comes to be in those who are endowed well by nature and exercised by experience; training makes these more skilful and more fluent in discovering arguments for it teaches them to take from what is more available what they would have happened to find wandering, but it cannot transform those with inferior natures into good debators or writers of speeches" (Against the Sophists 15). 20. Socrates ironically echoes Isocrates' praise for the "shrewd and courageous soul" (Against the Sophists 17) in describing the "artless" natural capacity of the rhetorician who is a "clever dealer with men" (Gorgias 463a), 21. Compare Socrates' observation to Phaedrus on acquiring the "truly rhetorical art"—"If you are rhetorical by nature from the beginning, you will become a notable rhetorician, adding knowledge and practice; when any of these is missing, you will be incomplete" (Phaedrus 269d)—with Isocrates' claim concerning natural ability, practice, and the examples set by a good teacher: "When all of these are found together, those philosophizing will achieve perfection; but insofar as any,of those mentioned is missing, they will necessarily fall short of completion" (Against the Sophists 18). 22. Isocrates' wish for the power of philosophy is ironically echoed in Phaedrus's enthusiastic wish for the capacity to memorize the speech of Lysias: "I would prefer to have that ability over much gold" (Phaedrus 228a). 23. T h e same contrast is brought up by the Eleatic Stranger in the attempt to show young Socrates the limitations of the written law: "For law could never, by comprehending the most excellent and most just for all, command the best; for the dissimilarities of men and of actions, and the fact that nothing, so to speak, is ever at rest in human affairs, do not permit any art whatever to declare anything simple for everything and for all time" (Statesman 294b). 24. Through the hidden dialogue with Isocrates which runs through the Phaedrus, Plato on one level enters, on another transforms, the ongoing argument between Isocrates and Alcidamus concerning the relative value of writing in contrast with extemporaneous speech. This conflict between the claims for literary rhetoric established by Isocrates and those of practical oratory established by Alcidamus, seems to represent a major issue among the fourth-century schools of rhetoric. See Van Hook, "Alcidamus versus Isocrates." In his speech " O n the Writing of Written Speeches" Alcidamus uses almost all the arguments which Socrates relates to Phaedrus in his condemnation of the written word: Writing is deficient in both rhetoric and philosophy; is easily attacked; is inappropriate to the occasion; is an easy matter which requires long premeditation and revision at leisure; is seldom useful in human life; brings aid too late to save the day; is deficient in spontaneity and truth, with the impression of mechanical artificiality and labored insincerity, hence inspiring its audience with distrust and ill-will; is .most successful when least resembling writing and most imitating extemporaneous speech, as in the speeches for the law courts; involves inconsistencies because of its attempted use for all occasions; only reveals the wisdom of its producer when he has the manuscript in his hands; is like confinement in bonds, which make mental processes sluggish; demands the laborious task of memorizing and brings disgrace if forgotten; leads to a loss of time, embarrassment, and confusion with

153 Notes to the Appendix the slightest omission; cannot respond to opponents; stands in the way of advantages that come of themselves, unlike the other arts which are helpful; is devoid of all life and action; can be the vehicle of its own condemnation insofar as it is not completely condemned, but only of lesser worth than extemporaneous speech, and must be used to show those writers who are proud of their ability that their speeches can be easily surpassed; does not imply carelessness of extemporaneous speech, which still requires preparation in advance of ideas and general arrangement. "In conclusion, then, whoever wishes to become a masterly speaker rather than a mediocre writer, whoever desires to be a master of occasion rather than of accurate diction, whoever is eager to gain the good will of his listener as an ally rather than his ill-will as an enemy, whoever wants his mind to be unbonded, his memory ready, and his lapses of memory unobserved, whoever has his heart set upon the acquisition of a power of speaking which will be of adequate service in the needs of daily life, this man, I say with good reason, would make the practice of extemporaneous speech, at every time and on every occasion, his constant concern. On the other hand, should he study writing for amusement and as a pastime, he would be deemed by the wise to be a possessor of wisdom." 25. Isocrates' understanding of his speeches as capable of delivering himself and his audience from the evils of the particular political situation at hand is transformed in the Platonic understanding of the self-protective written word, "able to defend itself, knowing when to speak and when to remain silent" (Phaedrus 276a). 26. The speech abounds with obvious echoes of Plato's Apology of Socrates: see An-

tidosis 21, 27, 33, 89, 95, 100, 145, 154, 179, 240, 321. 27. Precisely in those speeches which he presents as most playful, Isocrates defends the seriousness of his own art of writing. See Evagoras 11, 81; Helen 5, 67; Busiris 9, 49. 28. If Busiris is to be identified with Socrates, his division of classes must be an imitation of Socrates' division in the Republic, and the Egyptian priests are an imitation of Socrates' philosophers. See Bloom, "The Political Philosophy of Isocrates," pp. 202 ff. 29. While Isocrates' Helen appears to be a response to Plato's Protagoras (compare Helen 1 with Protagoras 329c), Plato's Phaedrus seems to be an answer to the Helen, arguing against Isocrates' contention that it is better to doxazein about the important than to epistasthai about the unimportant. See R. L. Howland, "The Attack on Isocrates in the

Phaedrus." 30. Cf. Meno 93b-94a. 31. Plato seems to respond to Isocrates' eulogy of Helen as Isocrates does to that of Gorgias. For a translation of this speech, intended to reproduce the tone of Gorgianic rhetoric, see LaRue Van Hook, "The Encomium on Helen by Gorgias." 32. Isocrates begins the last of his political speeches with a description of his own work, contrasted on the one hand with those playful speeches dealing with mythical themes, "filled with monsters and falsehoods," and on the other hand from the speeches of the law courts, "giving the impression of being written in a plain and simple style, lacking all refinements"; Isocrates insists, "I left all these to others, and devoted myself to giving advice on the interests of Athens and the rest of the Hellenes" (Panathenaicus 1-2),

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INDEX

Subjects and Persons Alcidamus, 149 (n?53), 152-53 (n.24) Ammianus Marcellinus, 112 Aristophanes, 127 (n.3), 142 (n.9), 149 (n.62) Aristotle, 127 (n.6), 130 (n.32, n.33, n.35), 131 {n. 11), 132 (n.15, n.17, n.18), 137 (n. 16, n. 18), 140(n.43), 141 (n.49), 142 (n.62), 143 (n.18), 145 (n.38, n.44) Art (tekhne), 5-6, 20, 30, 35, 43-44, 49-50, 58, 94, 100, 125, 134 (n.2), 147 (n.30), 149 (n, 55); of speaking (see Rhetoric. See also Dialectics) Beauty, 7, 15, 35-36, 47, 60-61, 64, 67, 69, 100, 107, 124-25, 140 (n.38, n.39) Benardete, S., 132 (n.20), 133 (n.22, n.32), 138(n.28), 139(n.30, n.35), 147 (n.30), 149 (n.61) Bloom, A., 127 (n.2), 151 (n.U), 153 (n.28) Body, 17, 36-37, 50-55, 62, 80, 84-86, 141 (n.56), 145 (n.40) Brumbaugh, R., 139 (n.32) Cicero, 144 (n.35) City, 6, 8, 11, 15, 29, 38, 57, 62, 116-17, 122, 127 (n.5), 129 (n.30), 138 (n.28), 140 (n.43); and the demos, 19, 26, 132 (n.21, n.22), 133 (n.23) Clement of Alexandria, 112 Creuzer, F., 148 (n.46) Death, 11, 14, 55, 73, 147 (n. 34); and the written word, 3, 6, 28-29, 41-43, 74, 79, 94, 109 Derrida, J., 114, 129 (n,24), 133 (n.30), 142 (n.l), 146 (n. 21), 147 (n. 29) DeVries, G. ]., 130 (n.37), 131 (n.6), 151 (n.5) Dialectics, 6, 71-72, 74, 82, 87-89, 101-

04, 108-09, 144 (n.30), 145 (n.l); as collection and division, 70-71, 76, 78, 80-81, 84-86, 88-89, 102 Dio Chrysostom, 131 (n.9) Diodorus Siculus, 111, 134 (n.7), 146 (n.14) Diogenes Laertius, 131 (n.3), 133 (n.33) Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 130 (n. 3), 131 (n.8, n.10), 132 (n.l3), 150 (n.l) Divine inspiration, 5, 32-33, 40, 46, 48-50, 60-63, 82, 92, 95, 108, 130 (n.l), 143 (n.29); of prophecy, 46, 48-50, 96; of purification, 41-43, 46, 49-50, 137 (n.9); of Socrates' daimonion, 33, 40-41, 43-46, 136 (n.20, n.2). See also Gods; Madness; Muses; Poetry Drug (pharmakon), 14, 19-20, 90, 94-95, 120 (n.2), 147 (n.32, n.35); and Pharmakeia, 14, 20, 39, 95, 129 (n.24) Egyptian, 90-94, 109-13, 123 Eidos, 60-61, 77, 80-81, 85-89, 102 Empedocles, 141 (n.6) Eros, 5, 19, 27, 36, 42, 44-45, 48, 50, 52-53, 59-69, 89, 108, 128 (n. 10), 140 (n.47), 142 (n.63); complexity of, 22, 34, 71, 77-78, 82, 86; and the nonlover, 18-27, 31-32, 35-40, 68, 135 (n. 11); and the nonloving beloved, 9, 11, 21-22, 24, 34, 61-69, 141 (n.57), 142 (n.62) Ficino, M., 112, 129 (n.27), 140 (n.42) Friendship (philia), 24-25, 39, 67-68, 107-08, 132 (n. 17, n.18), 141 (n.49) Gaiser, K., 149 (n.63) Gods, 1, 44-45, 48-50, 54-59, 62-63, 89, 92, 94, 126, 138 (n.19, n.20, n.21, n.26), 140 (n.44, n.46); Aphrodite, 45, 144 (n.29); Boreas, 14-15, 62; Eros. *

158 1 0 - 1 1 , 4 4 - 4 6 , 58, 62, 69, 80, 127 (n.8), 128 (n.10), 1 4 0 ( n . 4 f ) , 143 (n.27);Hestia, 55-56, 138 (n.23); Pan, 3 3 , 4 0 , 107, 129 (n.25), 150 (n.67); Prometheus, 9 3 - 9 4 , 110, 147 (n.30); ThamuzAmmon, 9 0 - 9 6 , 146 (n. 14, n.21, n.23, n,27); Theuth, 9 0 - 9 6 , 109-10, 146 (n. 14, n.21), 147 (n.29, n.30); Zeus, 55-56, 94, 141 (n.60) Greek, 93, 110-11, 116-17, 125 Gundert, H., 142 (n.14), 143 (n.28) Hackforth, R., 145 ( n . l ) Hegel, G. W . F., 113-14 Heidegger, M., I 2 8 ( n . l 9 ) , 140 (n.38) Herodotus, 111, 146 (n.27) Hesiod, 142 (n.10) Homer, 129 (n.29), 138 (n. 19), 143 (n, 19, n.21) Hubris, 6, 15, 31, 36, 4 4 - 4 5 , 62, 65, 89, 108, 150 (n.68) Idea, 35, 53-54, 80-81, 88 Immortality, 2 8 - 2 9 , 4 1 - 4 2 , 51-54, 72, 94, 123, 137 (n. 13, n.15) Innis, H., 146 (n.20, n.23) Isocrates, 106-07, 116-26, 150-53 (notes) Kramer, H. )., 149 (n.63) Law-writers, 4, 9, 33, 105; and the written law, 72, 133 (n.25), 147 (n.39), 148 (n.47) Leisure, 8 - 9 , 12, 17, 73, 100, 127 (n.4, n.6), 142 (n.8) Letters {grammala), 9 0 - 9 4 , 100, 110, 120-21; alphabetic, 91, 93, 98, 113-14, 148 (n.44); in contrast with hieroglyphics, 91, 93, 98, 109-14, 148 (n.45, n,46) Likeness, 12-13, 17, 63, 67, 76, 89, 128 (n.19, n,20), 141 (n.61); as image, 50, 53-54, 67, 79, 9 8 - 9 9 , 109, 135 (n.8); through imitation, 2 - 3 , 21, 62-63, 87, 95, 100, 135 (n.9) Logos, 42, 46, 50-51, 75, 84-85, 87, 92, 98, 104, 107-09; as living animal, 3 - 4 , 51, 71, 7 9 - 8 0 , 9 7 - 9 8 ; and logographic necessity, 22, 78-79; necessarv areu-

Index mentof? 31, 34, 38-39, 118-19. See also Dialectics Lysias, 4, 8 - 9 , 12-14, 16-41, 45, 4 7 - 4 8 , 66, 69, 71-72, 82, 84, 103, 105-07, 115-16, 130 (n.3), 131 (n.4, n.5, n.6, n.8, n.9, n.10), 132 ( n . l 3 ) Madness, 5, 4 4 - 4 5 , 4 8 - 5 0 , 6 0 - 6 2 , 6 7 - 6 8 , 89, 108; complexity of, 31-32, 48, 66, 80, 137 (n. 11). See also Divine inspiration; Eros Maximus of Tyre, 134 (n.4) Medical art, 83-85, 94, 144 (n.31), 145 (n.37); and physicians, 10, 83, 127 (n.7), 128 (n.12, n.13) Memory, 12-13, 57-58, 61-62, 90, 94, 123, 128 (n. 17), 139(n.30), 147 (n.31), 149 (n.57); and recollection, 28, 6 0 - 6 1 , 80, 134 (n.3); and reminder, 2 - 3 , 33-34, 90, 96, 100, 104-05 Moderation, 6, 35-36, 41, 44, 64, 6 6 - 6 8 , 89, 117 Money, 20-21, 2 5 - 2 6 , 29, 107; and gold, 12, 16, 120 Muses, 11, 17, 35, 4 0 - 4 1 , 4 6 - 4 7 , 49, 58-59; and cicadas, 5, 70, 7 3 - 7 4 , 89, 129 (n.28), 142 (n.44); and nymphs, 32-33, 39-40, 105, 129 (n.23, n.29), 134 (n.7) Myth, 4 - 5 , 14-15, 47, 50, 68, 7 3 - 7 4 , 9 2 - 9 3 , 9 5 - 9 6 , 98 Nietzsche, F . , 136 (n.2), 138 (n.21), 142 (n.63) Onians, R. B., 140 (n.41) Pausanius, 129 (n.29) Pico dela Mirandola, 148 (n.45) Pindar, 127 (n.4), 138 (n.20) Playfulness (paidia), 10, 80, 100-01, 104-05, 143 (n.28), 149 (n.55) Plotinus, 112 Plutarch, 111, 1 5 0 ( n . 6 5 ) Poetry, 33-34, 4 6 - 4 7 , 4 9 - 5 0 , 55, 83, 105-06, 125, 127 (n.2), 134 (n.4, n.5) Rhetoric, 17, 23, 34-35, 7 0 - 7 1 , 7 5 - 7 8 , S?_8Q 1 CiH I K ">1 15 1 /-

159

Index 139 (n.34), 143 (n. 18, n.19), 144 (n.32, n.33), 145 (n.37, n.43, n.44); and persuasion, 6, 13, 22, 2 6 - 2 7 , 48, 64, 69-70, 74-76, 84-89, 102-04, 116, 128 (n.21), 142 (n.13), 143 (n.17) Rosen, S., 133 (n.27) Rousseau, J. J., 113 Sinaiko, H., 143 (n.25)' Skenip, J. B., 137 {n.13) Soul {psuche), 38-39, 42, 4 4 - 4 5 , 50-69, 7 5 - 7 6 , 9 9 - 1 0 2 , 104, 107-08, 149 (n.61); chariot-team as image of, 4 4 - 4 5 , 54-57, 6 4 - 6 6 , 137 (n.17), 138 (n.19), 141 (n. 53); classes of, 55, 57, 59, 62-63, 85, 87-88, 102, 138 (n.28, n.29), 139 {n.32, n.33, n.35); complexity of, 59, 64, 84-88, 102-03, 141 (n.56), 145 (n.38, n.39, n.42); and self-knowledge, 5, 12, 14-15, 6 2 - 6 3 , 67; as self-moving

motion, 6, 44, 50-54, 101, 108-09, 137 (n.13, n . l 5 , n.16), 138 (n.27) Spinoza, B., 148 (n.40) Strauss, L., 143 (n.24) Thucydides, 142 (n.7) Van Hook, L., 152 (n.24) Vico, G., 113 Whole and parts: of the dialogue, 3-5; of eros (see Eros, complexity of); of logos (see Logos as living animal, and logographic necessity); of the love-speeches, 18, 30-32, 34, 3 9 - 4 0 , 4 5 - 4 6 , 59, 66, 71, 80, 102, 108; of soul (see Soul, complexity of); of writing, 30, 33, 42, 9 8 - 1 0 1 , 108. See also Dialectics, as collection and division

References to Other Platonic Dialogues Apology 20c-23b, 137 (n.8); 34d, 147 (n.38) AlcibiadesI 132b, 147 (n.35) Charmides 155e-l57e, 147 (n.35); 156d157c, 145 (n.39) Cratylus 390b, 146 (n.20); 391e, 140 (n.44); 394a-b, 130 (n.2), 147 (n.35); 396d, 136 (n. 5); 398d, 135(n.l2);400d, 140 (n.44); 401b, 138 (n.23); 408b-d, 150 (n.67); 409c, 135 (n.4); 424d-425b, 148 (n.41); 430b-431e, 148 (n.41) Critias 106b, 147 (n.35) Crito 52b, 129 (n.30) Euthydemus 289b, 146 (n,20); 304a, 150 (n.2); 306c, 150 (n.2) Gorgias 448e, 132 (n. 16); 454e, 143 (n.17); 463a, 152 (n.20); 465c, 145 (n.37); 481d-e, 132 (n.21); 485d, 138 (n.24); 502b, 150 (n.64); 515e, 144 (n.34); 522b, 148 (n.50); 527c, 139(n.34), 144 (n.34) Hipparchus 229c, 147 (n.28) Hippias Minor 368a-d, 128 (n.17), 147

Ion 535e-536b, 130 (n.36) Lfjws 644e, 149 (n.55); 649a-b, 147 (n.35); 657a, 146 (n.17); 660e, 134 (n.35); 722c-d, 142 (n.13); 727d, 139 (n.29); 739a, 147(n,28); 820d, 147 (n.28); 845d-e, 147 (n. 35); 889c-d, 149 (n. 55), 895d-896b, 137 ( n . l 5 ) ; 9 0 3 d , 147 (n.28); 957d, 147 (n.35) Lysis 214a, 128 (n.20) Meno 81a, 134 (n.3); 94b, 144 (n.34)

Parmenides 136e, 136 (n.3) Phaedo 60e-61b, 4 1 - 4 2 ; 63d-e, 147 (n.35); 64c, 41; 66a, 140 (n.36); 67a, 140 (n.36); 67c, 42; 69c, 137 (n.9), 140 (n.36); 71a-b, 42; 73b-76e, 136 (n.21); 99d-102a, 42, 144 (n.30); 107a-b, 42 Philebus 16c-17a, 110, 144 (n.30); 18l^c, 110, 148 (n.44); 19b-c, 148 (n. 50); 54c, 147 (n.35); 67b, 136 (n.7)

Protagoras 315c, 128 (n. 13, n. 17); 319e, 144 (n.34); 320d-328c, 131 (n.7); 329c, 153 (n.29) Republic

327c, 128 (n.21); 336d, 145

•

160 (n.29); 382c, 147 ( n J 5 ) ; 392d, 135 (n.9); 402a-c, 148 (n.44); 406a-b, 127 (n.7); 416c-417b, 150 (n.71); 435d, 145 (n.42); 436a, 141 (n.53);440d, 128 (n.16); 441a, 139 (n.32); 459c, 147 (n.35); 464c-d, 150 (n.71); 487c, 147 (n.28); 490b, 139 (n.29); 492a-493d, 139 (n.29); 496c, 136 (n.20) ; 504a-b, 145 (n.42); 510c, 135 (n. 10); 511b-d, 135 (n. 10), 144 (n. 30); 521b, 133 (n.23); 549a, 128 (n.14); 566a, 135 (n.19); 573b, 143 (n.27); 573d, 139 (n.29); 579b-c, 138 (n.24); 580a, 135 (n.17); 586c, 136 (n.4); 595b, 147 (n.35); 597e, 127 (n.2); 60Id, 146 (n.20); 604c, 147 (n.28); 617e, 139(n.33) Second Utter 314c, 7, 149 (n.59) Seventh Letter 344c, 149 (n.59) Sophist 226a, 133 (n. 31); 235d-236c, 138 (n.27); 248e-249b, 133 (n.26); 253a, 148 (n.44); 2531>-e, 144 (n.30); 257d258b, 135 (n.ll); 268a, 133 (n.24) Statesman 272a-d, 127 (n.5), 138 (n.26);

Index 277d-278d, 133 (n.28), 148 (n.44); 285a-c, 144 (n.30); 293e, 148 (n.47); 294b-295a, 133 (n.25), 152 (n.23); 294c-301e, 147 (n.39); 310a, 147 (n.35)

Symposium 176d, 128 (n. 12); 177b, 157 (n. 17); 177c, 10; 177d-e, 128 (n. 10); 178c, 11; 179a-b, 11, 135 (n.16); 180b, 11; 192e-193a, 140 (n.47); 195b, 141 (n.50); 202e, 46, 128 (n.ll); 203a, 46; 203d, 127 (n.8); 204b, 46; 207d, 11; 208d, 11; 210a-212a, 135 (n. 13); 215a-217a, 150 (n.68); 220b, 128 (n.9); 222a-b, 150 (n.68)

Theaetetus 149e, 149 (n. 56); 152a, 133 (n.32); 169a-b, 129 (n.22); 171c, 133 (n.32); 172c, 142 (n.8); 191d, 139 (n.30); 193c, 149 (n.57); 202e, 148 (n.44) Timaeus 21e, 146 (n.20); 29d-e, 141 (n.48); 48c, 148 (n.44); 52b, 149 (n.61); 69e-70a, 141 (n.56); 89a-c, 147 (n.32, n.35)