Alcibiades 109c9-112d10 (sample content)

{ΣΩ.} Ἄλλο τι οὖν, ὃ νυνδὴ ἐγὼ ἠρώτων βέλτιον πρὸς
109c10 τὸ πολεμεῖν καὶ μή, καὶ οἷς δεῖ καὶ οἷς μή, καὶ ὁπότε καὶ
μή, τὸ δικαιότερον τυγχάνει ὄν; ἢ οὔ;

{ΑΛ.} Φαίνεταί γε.

{ΣΩ.} Πῶς οὖν, ὦ φίλε Ἀλκιβιάδη; πότερον σαυτὸν
λέληθας ὅτι οὐκ ἐπίστασαι τοῦτο, ἢ ἐμὲ ἔλαθες μανθάνων
καὶ φοιτῶν εἰς διδασκάλου ὅς σε ἐδίδασκε διαγιγνώσκειν
τὸ δικαιότερόν τε καὶ ἀδικώτερον; καὶ τίς ἐστιν οὗτος;
109d5 φράσον καὶ ἐμοί, ἵνα αὐτῷ φοιτητὴν προξενήσῃς καὶ ἐμέ.

{ΑΛ.} Σκώπτεις, ὦ Σώκρατες.

{ΣΩ.} Οὐ μὰ τὸν Φίλιον τὸν ἐμόν τε καὶ σόν, ὃν ἐγὼ
ἥκιστ’ ἂν ἐπιορκήσαιμι· ἀλλ’ εἴπερ ἔχεις, εἰπὲ τίς ἐστιν.

{ΑΛ.} Τί δ’ εἰ μὴ ἔχω; οὐκ ἂν οἴει με ἄλλως εἰδέναι περὶ τῶν δικαίων καὶ ἀδίκων;

{ΣΩ.} Ναί, εἴ γε εὕροις.

{ΑΛ.} Ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἂν εὑρεῖν με ἡγῇ;

{ΣΩ.} Καὶ μάλα γε, εἰ ζητήσαις.

{ΑΛ.} Εἶτα ζητῆσαι οὐκ ἂν οἴει με;

{ΣΩ.} Ἔγωγε, εἰ οἰηθείης γε μὴ εἰδέναι.

{ΑΛ.} Εἶτα οὐκ ἦν ὅτ’ εἶχον οὕτω;

{ΣΩ.} Καλῶς λέγεις. ἔχεις οὖν εἰπεῖν τοῦτον τὸν χρόνον
110a1 ὅτε οὐκ ᾤου εἰδέναι τὰ δίκαια καὶ τὰ ἄδικα; φέρε, πέρυσιν
ἐζήτεις τε καὶ οὐκ ᾤου εἰδέναι; ἢ ᾤου; καὶ τἀληθῆ
ἀποκρίνου, ἵνα μὴ μάτην οἱ διάλογοι γίγνωνται.

{ΑΛ.} Ἀλλ’ ᾤμην εἰδέναι.

{ΣΩ.} Τρίτον δ’ ἔτος καὶ τέταρτον καὶ πέμπτον οὐχ
οὕτως;

{ΑΛ.} Ἔγωγε.

{ΣΩ.} Ἀλλὰ μὴν τό γε πρὸ τοῦ παῖς ἦσθα. ἦ γάρ;

{ΑΛ.} Ναί.

{ΣΩ.} Τότε μὲν τοίνυν εὖ οἶδα ὅτι ᾤου εἰδέναι.

{ΑΛ.} Πῶς εὖ οἶσθα;

{ΣΩ.} Πολλάκις σοῦ ἐν διδασκάλων ἤκουον παιδὸς ὄντος
καὶ ἄλλοθι, καὶ ὁπότε ἀστραγαλίζοις ἢ ἄλλην τινὰ παιδιὰν
παίζοις, οὐχ ὡς ἀποροῦντος περὶ τῶν δικαίων καὶ ἀδίκων,
ἀλλὰ μάλα μέγα καὶ θαρραλέως λέγοντος περὶ ὅτου τύχοις
110b5 τῶν παίδων ὡς πονηρός τε καὶ ἄδικος εἴη καὶ ὡς ἀδικοῖ·
ἢ οὐκ ἀληθῆ λέγω;

{ΑΛ.} Ἀλλὰ τί ἔμελλον ποιεῖν, ὦ Σώκρατες, ὁπότε τίς
με ἀδικοῖ;

{ΣΩ.} Σὺ δ’ εἰ τύχοις ἀγνοῶν εἴτ’ ἀδικοῖο εἴτε μὴ τότε,
110b10 λέγεις, τί σε χρὴ ποιεῖν;

{ΑΛ.} Μὰ Δί’ ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἠγνόουν ἔγωγε, ἀλλὰ σαφῶς
ἐγίγνωσκον ὅτι ἠδικούμην.

{ΣΩ.} Ὤιου ἄρα ἐπίστασθαι καὶ παῖς ὤν, ὡς ἔοικε, τὰ
δίκαια καὶ τὰ ἄδικα.

{ΑΛ.} Ἔγωγε· καὶ ἠπιστάμην γε.

{ΣΩ.} Ἐν ποίῳ χρόνῳ ἐξευρών; οὐ γὰρ δήπου ἐν ᾧ γε
ᾤου εἰδέναι.

{ΑΛ.} Οὐ δῆτα.

{ΣΩ.} Πότε οὖν ἀγνοεῖν ἡγοῦ; σκόπει· οὐ γὰρ εὑρήσεις
110c10 τοῦτον τὸν χρόνον.

{ΑΛ.} Μὰ τὸν Δί’, ὦ Σώκρατες, οὔκουν ἔχω γ’ εἰπεῖν.

{ΣΩ.} Εὑρὼν μὲν ἄρ’ οὐκ οἶσθα αὐτά.

{ΑΛ.} Οὐ πάνυ φαίνομαι.

{ΣΩ.} Ἀλλὰ μὴν ἄρτι γε οὐδὲ μαθὼν ἔφησθα εἰδέναι·
εἰ δὲ μήθ’ ηὗρες μήτ’ ἔμαθες, πῶς οἶσθα καὶ πόθεν;

{ΑΛ.} Ἀλλ’ ἴσως τοῦτό σοι οὐκ ὀρθῶς ἀπεκρινάμην, τὸ
φάναι εἰδέναι αὐτὸς ἐξευρών.

{ΣΩ.} Τὸ δὲ πῶς εἶχεν;

{ΑΛ.} Ἔμαθον οἶμαι καὶ ἐγὼ ὥσπερ καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι.

{ΣΩ.} Πάλιν εἰς τὸν αὐτὸν ἥκομεν λόγον. παρὰ τοῦ;
110d10 φράζε κἀμοί.

{ΑΛ.} Παρὰ τῶν πολλῶν.

{ΣΩ.} Οὐκ εἰς σπουδαίους γε διδασκάλους καταφεύγεις
εἰς τοὺς πολλοὺς ἀναφέρων.

{ΑΛ.} Τί δέ; οὐχ ἱκανοὶ διδάξαι οὗτοι;

{ΣΩ.} Οὔκουν τὰ πεττευτικά γε καὶ τὰ μή· καίτοι
φαυλότερα αὐτὰ οἶμαι τῶν δικαίων εἶναι. τί δέ; σὺ οὐχ
οὕτως οἴει;

{ΑΛ.} Ναί.

{ΣΩ.} Εἶτα τὰ μὲν φαυλότερα οὐχ οἷοί τε διδάσκειν, τὰ
110e10 δὲ σπουδαιότερα;

{ΑΛ.} Οἶμαι ἔγωγε· ἄλλα γοῦν πολλὰ οἷοί τ’ εἰσὶν δι-
δάσκειν σπουδαιότερα τοῦ πεττεύειν.

{ΣΩ.} Ποῖα ταῦτα;

{ΑΛ.} Οἷον καὶ τὸ ἑλληνίζειν παρὰ τούτων ἔγωγ’ ἔμαθον,
καὶ οὐκ ἂν ἔχοιμι εἰπεῖν ἐμαυτοῦ διδάσκαλον, ἀλλ’ εἰς
τοὺς αὐτοὺς ἀναφέρω οὓς σὺ φῂς οὐ σπουδαίους εἶναι
διδασκάλους.

{ΣΩ.} Ἀλλ’, ὦ γενναῖε, τούτου μὲν ἀγαθοὶ διδάσκαλοι οἱ
πολλοί, καὶ δικαίως ἐπαινοῖντ’ ἂν αὐτῶν εἰς διδασκαλίαν.

{ΑΛ.} Τί δή;

{ΣΩ.} Ὅτι ἔχουσι περὶ αὐτὰ ἃ χρὴ τοὺς ἀγαθοὺς δι-
δασκάλους ἔχειν.

{ΑΛ.} Τί τοῦτο λέγεις;

{ΣΩ.} Οὐκ οἶσθ’ ὅτι χρὴ τοὺς μέλλοντας διδάσκειν ὁτιοῦν
111b1 αὐτοὺς πρῶτον εἰδέναι; ἢ οὔ;

{ΑΛ.} Πῶς γὰρ οὔ;

{ΣΩ.} Οὐκοῦν τοὺς εἰδότας ὁμολογεῖν τε ἀλλήλοις καὶ
μὴ διαφέρεσθαι;

{ΑΛ.} Ναί.

{ΣΩ.} Ἐν οἷς δ’ ἂν διαφέρωνται, ταῦτα φήσεις εἰδέναι
αὐτούς;

{ΑΛ.} Οὐ δῆτα.

{ΣΩ.} Τούτων οὖν διδάσκαλοι πῶς ἂν εἶεν;

{ΑΛ.} Οὐδαμῶς.

{ΣΩ.} Τί οὖν; δοκοῦσί σοι διαφέρεσθαι οἱ πολλοὶ ποῖόν
ἐστι λίθος ἢ ξύλον; καὶ ἐάν τινα ἐρωτᾷς, ἆρ’ οὐ τὰ αὐτὰ
111c1 ὁμολογοῦσιν, καὶ ἐπὶ ταὐτὰ ὁρμῶσιν ὅταν βούλωνται λαβεῖν
λίθον ἢ ξύλον; ὡσαύτως καὶ πάνθ’ ὅσα τοιαῦτα· σχεδὸν
γάρ τι μανθάνω τὸ ἑλληνίζειν ἐπίστασθαι ὅτι τοῦτο λέγεις·
ἢ οὔ;

{ΑΛ.} Ναί.

{ΣΩ.} Οὐκοῦν εἰς μὲν ταῦθ’, ὥσπερ εἴπομεν, ἀλλήλοις τε
ὁμολογοῦσι καὶ αὐτοὶ ἑαυτοῖς ἰδίᾳ, καὶ δημοσίᾳ αἱ πόλεις
πρὸς ἀλλήλας οὐκ ἀμφισβητοῦσιν αἱ μὲν ταῦθ’ αἱ δ’ ἄλλα
φάσκουσαι;

{ΑΛ.} Οὐ γάρ.

{ΣΩ.} Εἰκότως ἂν ἄρα τούτων γε καὶ διδάσκαλοι εἶεν
ἀγαθοί.

{ΑΛ.} Ναί.

{ΣΩ.} Οὐκοῦν εἰ μὲν βουλοίμεθα ποιῆσαί τινα περὶ αὐτῶν
εἰδέναι, ὀρθῶς ἂν αὐτὸν πέμποιμεν εἰς διδασκαλίαν τούτων
τῶν πολλῶν;

{ΑΛ.} Πάνυ γε.

{ΣΩ.} Τί δ’ εἰ βουληθεῖμεν εἰδέναι, μὴ μόνον ποῖοι
ἄνθρωποί εἰσιν ἢ ποῖοι ἵπποι, ἀλλὰ καὶ τίνες αὐ-
τῶν δρομικοί τε καὶ μή, ἆρ’ ἔτι οἱ πολλοὶ τοῦτο ἱκανοὶ
διδάξαι;

{ΑΛ.} Οὐ δῆτα.

{ΣΩ.} Ἱκανὸν δέ σοι τεκμήριον ὅτι οὐκ ἐπίστανται οὐδὲ
111e1 κρήγυοι διδάσκαλοί εἰσιν τούτων, ἐπειδὴ οὐδὲν ὁμολογοῦσιν
ἑαυτοῖς περὶ αὐτῶν;

{ΑΛ.} Ἔμοιγε.

{ΣΩ.} Τί δ’ εἰ βουληθεῖμεν εἰδέναι, μὴ μόνον ποῖοι
111e5 ἄνθρωποί εἰσιν, ἀλλ’ ὁποῖοι ὑγιεινοὶ ἢ νοσώδεις, ἆρ’ ἱκανοὶ
ἂν ἡμῖν ἦσαν διδάσκαλοι οἱ πολλοί;

{ΑΛ.} Οὐ δῆτα.

{ΣΩ.} Ἦν δ’ ἄν σοι τεκμήριον ὅτι μοχθηροί εἰσι τούτων
διδάσκαλοι, εἰ ἑώρας αὐτοὺς διαφερομένους;

{ΑΛ.} Ἔμοιγε.

{ΣΩ.} Τί δὲ δή; νῦν περὶ τῶν δικαίων καὶ ἀδίκων ἀνθρώ-
112a1 πων καὶ πραγμάτων οἱ πολλοὶ δοκοῦσί σοι ὁμολογεῖν αὐτοὶ
ἑαυτοῖς ἢ ἀλλήλοις;

{ΑΛ.} Ἥκιστα νὴ Δί’, ὦ Σώκρατες.

{ΣΩ.} Τί δέ; μάλιστα περὶ αὐτῶν διαφέρεσθαι;

{ΑΛ.} Πολύ γε.

{ΣΩ.} Οὔκουν οἴομαί γε πώποτέ σε ἰδεῖν οὐδ’ ἀκοῦσαι
σφόδρα οὕτω διαφερομένους ἀνθρώπους περὶ ὑγιεινῶν καὶ
μή, ὥστε διὰ ταῦτα μάχεσθαί τε καὶ ἀποκτεινύναι ἀλλήλους.

{ΑΛ.} Οὐ δῆτα.

{ΣΩ.} Ἀλλὰ περὶ τῶν δικαίων καὶ ἀδίκων ἔγωγ’ οἶδ’ ὅτι,
112b1 καὶ εἰ μὴ ἑώρακας, ἀκήκοας γοῦν ἄλλων τε πολλῶν καὶ
Ὁμήρου· καὶ Ὀδυσσείας γὰρ καὶ Ἰλιάδος ἀκήκοας.

{ΑΛ.} Πάντως δήπου, ὦ Σώκρατες.

{ΣΩ.} Οὐκοῦν ταῦτα ποιήματά ἐστι περὶ διαφορᾶς δικαίων
112b5 τε καὶ ἀδίκων;

{ΑΛ.} Ναί.

{ΣΩ.} Καὶ αἱ μάχαι γε καὶ οἱ θάνατοι διὰ ταύτην τὴν
διαφορὰν τοῖς τε Ἀχαιοῖς καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις Τρωσὶν ἐγένοντο,
καὶ τοῖς μνηστῆρσι τοῖς τῆς Πηνελόπης καὶ τῷ Ὀδυσσεῖ.

{ΑΛ.} Ἀληθῆ λέγεις.

{ΣΩ.} Οἶμαι δὲ καὶ τοῖς ἐν Τανάγρᾳ Ἀθηναίων τε καὶ
Λακεδαιμονίων καὶ Βοιωτῶν ἀποθανοῦσι, καὶ τοῖς ὕστερον
ἐν Κορωνείᾳ, ἐν οἷς καὶ ὁ σὸς πατὴρ [Κλεινίας] ἐτελεύτησεν,
112c5 οὐδὲ περὶ ἑνὸς ἄλλου ἡ διαφορὰ ἢ περὶ τοῦ δικαίου καὶ
ἀδίκου τοὺς θανάτους καὶ τὰς μάχας πεποίηκεν· ἦ γάρ;

{ΑΛ.} Ἀληθῆ λέγεις.

{ΣΩ.} Τούτους οὖν φῶμεν ἐπίστασθαι περὶ ὧν οὕτως
112d1 σφόδρα διαφέρονται, ὥστε ἀμφισβητοῦντες ἀλλήλοις τὰ
ἔσχατα σφᾶς αὐτοὺς ἐργάζονται;

{ΑΛ.} Οὐ φαίνεταί γε.

{ΣΩ.} Οὐκοῦν εἰς τοὺς τοιούτους διδασκάλους ἀναφέρεις
112d5 οὓς ὁμολογεῖς αὐτὸς μὴ εἰδέναι;

{ΑΛ.} Ἔοικα.

{ΣΩ.} Πῶς οὖν εἰκός σε εἰδέναι τὰ δίκαια καὶ τὰ ἄδικα,
περὶ ὧν οὕτω πλανᾷ καὶ οὔτε μαθὼν φαίνῃ παρ’ οὐδενὸς
οὔτ’ αὐτὸς ἐξευρών;

{ΑΛ.} Ἐκ μὲν ὧν σὺ λέγεις οὐκ εἰκός.

S. Then isn’t it the case that the better I was asking about just now—with respect to making war or not, and with whom and when one ought or ought not do so—is in fact the just? Isn’t it?

A. It seems so...

S. How, then, my dear Alcibiades? Have you fooled yourself by not knowing this, or have you fooled me by taking lessons with and learning from someone who taught you to distinguish the just and the unjust? And who is this? Tell me too, so that you might introduce me as another pupil for him.

A. You’re mocking me, Socrates.

S. By the god of friendship, mine and yours—he’s the last one I’d mess with—no! But if you are able, tell me who it is.

A. And what if I am not able? Do you not think I could know about just and unjust things in another way?

S. Yes, if you were to discover them.

A. But do you not believe that I would discover them?

S. I do, very much, if you were to seek them.

A. Then don’t you think I would seek them?

S. I do, if you thought you didn’t know them.

A. Then was there not a time when I was in that condition?

S. Beautifully put. Are you able to tell me that time when you didn’t think you knew the just and the unjust things? Come on, did you seek and not think you knew last year? Or did you think you knew? And tell me the truth, so that our conversations aren’t in vain.

A. But I thought I knew.

S. And two years ago and three and four, were you not in the same condition?

A. I was.

S. Moreover, before that you were a child—right?

A. Yes.

S. I know well that you thought you knew then.

A. How do you know well?

S. Often, when you were a child, at school and elsewhere, when you were playing dice or playing some other game, I heard you, not as if you were at a loss about the just and unjust things, but speaking loudly and boldly about whichever of the children you happened on that he was good-for-nothing and unjust, in other words, that he was doing you an injustice. Isn’t that right?

A. But what was I going to do, Socrates, when someone did me injustice?

S. Do you mean, what ought you to do if you were in fact at that time ignorant of whether he was doing you an injustice or not?"

A. No, by Zeus, I was not ignorant then, but I clearly recognized that I was being done an injustice!

S. Then you thought you knew the just and the unjust things, even when you were a child, it seems.

A. I did, and I really did know.

S. By having discovered them when? For I don’t suppose it was when you thought you knew.

A. Clearly not.

S. Then when did you believe you were ignorant? Think about it; you won’t discover that time.

A. By Zeus, Socrates, I’m not able to say.

S. So you don’t know them by having discovered them.

A. It really doesn’t appear so.

S. But yet you were just saying that you don’t know them by having learned them either. If you neither discovered it nor learned it, how and from where do you know it?

A. But maybe I wasn’t right in saying that I myself knew it by having discovered it.

S. But what, as a matter of fact, was the situation?

A. I think I learned in the way that others also do.

S. Once again, we’ve arrived at the same argument. From whom? Tell me, too.

A. From the many.

S. In appealing to the many, you’re taking refuge with worthless teachers.

A. How? Aren’t they capable of teaching?

S. Not what things are and are not good to do in board games, at any rate; and yet those, I think, are less important than just ones. What—don’t you think that’s how it is?

A. Yes.

S. Then they are not able to teach the less important things, but are able to teach those of greater worth?

A. I think so; but at any rate they are able to teach many things of more worth than board games.

S. What sorts of things?

A. For instance, I also learned Greek from them, and I couldn’t name my teacher, but I appeal to those whom you say are worthless teachers.

S. But, my noble friend, the many are good teachers of this, and they would justly be praised for their teaching.

A. Why?

S. Because they possess, in this matter, the things which good teachers ought to possess.

A. What are you talking about?

S. Don’t you know that those who are going to teach anything first have to know it themselves? Or not?

A. How could they not?

S. And those who know agree with each other and don’t disagree?

A. Yes.

S. Do you say that they know those matters in which they disagree?

A. Plainly not.

S. How could they be teachers of these things?

A. In no way.

S. What, then? Do the many seem to you to disagree about what sorts of things are sticks and stones? And if you ask one of them, don’t they agree on the same things, and go after the same things when they want to get a stone or a stick? And it’s the same for all matters like this. I’m getting a pretty good idea of what you mean by “knowing Greek,” right?

A. You are.

S. Then they agree with one another and with themselves on these points, as we said, in private, and in public cities are not at odds with one another, some saying these and others others?

A. Of course not.

S. So they’d likely be good teachers of at least these things.

A. Yes.

S. Then if we should want to make someone know about them, we would correctly send them to the teaching of the famous “many”?

A. Of course.

S. But what if we should want to know, not only what sorts of things are people or horses, but also which of them are good at running and not? Are the many still capable of teaching this?

A. Clearly no!

S. And is it sufficient proof that they do not know, nor are sterling teachers of them, since they in no way agree with themselves about them?

A. For me it is.

S. But what if we should want to know, not only what sorts of things are people, but what sorts are healthy or sick? Would the many be capable teachers for us?

A. Plainly not.

S. Would it be a proof for you that they are miserable teachers of these things, if you saw them disagreeing?

A. For me it would.

S. What, then? Do the many seem to you to agree with themselves or one another now, about just and unjust people and things?

A. By Zeus, least of all, Socrates!

S. What, then? Do they disagree about them most of all?

A. A whole lot.

S. So I don’t think you’ve ever seen or heard people disagreeing so vehemently about things that are healthy and not as to fight and kill one another on their account.

S. Clearly not.

S. But I know that, about just and unjust things, even if you haven’t seen, you’ve at least heard many others and Homer; for you’ve heard the Odyssey and Iliad.

A. Obviously, Socrates.

S. Then are these poems about disagreement on just and unjust things?

A. Yes.

S. And there were fights and even deaths for both the Achaeans and the Trojans on account of this disagreement, and for the suitors of Penelope and for Odysseus.

A. You speak the truth.

S. And I think that for those of the Athenians and Spartans and Boeotians who died at Tanagra, and for those who died later at Coroneia, among whom your father too met his end, disagreement over nothing at all other than about the just and the unjust has produced the deaths and the battles, right?

A. You speak the truth.

S. Then are we to say that these people know about the things they disagree about so vehemently that in being at odds with each other they do the ultimate harm to themselves?

A. Evidently not.

S. Then are you appealing to such teachers whom you yourself agree do not know?

A. So it seems.

S. How, then, is it likely that you know the just and the unjust things, about which you wander in this way and evidently have not learned from anyone or discovered yourself?

A. From what you’re saying, it’s not likely.

S. Then by calling something “better” in the context of deciding when to go to war and with whom, doesn’t “better” mean “more just”?

A. Seems so.

S. How is that possible, dear Alcibiades? Which is it: are you in denial about not knowing this, or have you been sneaking off with some teacher who’s taught you to distinguish the just from the unjust? And who is this teacher? Tell me, and introduce me as another follower.

A. Now you’re just teasing me, Socrates.

S. I swear on our friendship, I’m not! Tell me, if you really can.

A. And what if I can’t? Couldn’t I know what’s just or unjust some other way?

S. Sure—if you had discovered it yourself.

A. You don’t believe I could have discovered it?

S. Certainly—if you were looking for it.

A. And you don’t think I would have looked for it?

S. I do—if you thought you didn’t know.

A. And wasn’t there a time when that would have been the case?

S. Well said. So tell me, when was it that you didn’t think you knew what’s just or unjust? Could it have been last year? Or did you think you did know? Be honest so that these conversations aren’t a waste of our time.

A. I thought I knew...

S. What about two, three, and four years ago? Did you think you knew then too?

A. I did.

S. And before that you were a kid, right?

A. Yes.

S. Well, I’m confident you thought you knew then.

A. What makes you so sure?

S. When you were a child playing dice or other games, I often heard you tattling on whoever happened to be there—that so-and-so was bad and had cheated, already so sure about what was just and unjust. Isn’t that right?

A. What else could I do, Socrates, after being cheated?

S. Are you asking what you should do when you don’t know?

A. No! I did know. I was clearly being cheated.

S. Then you thought you understood what was just and unjust, even at that young age.

A. And I really did understand.

S. Okay then, and you discovered it when? Clearly not when you thought you knew.

A. Of course not

S. Then try and “discover” a time when you didn’t know. You won’t come up with one.

A. Well shoot, Socrates. I guess I really can’t.

S. So you don’t know it from having discovered it.

A. I guess that seems to be the case.

S. But didn’t you also just say that you don’t know from having learned it? If you didn’t discover it and you didn’t learn it, how do you know?

A. Well, maybe I was wrong to say I discovered it myself.

S. Then how did it happen?

A. I probably learned it the way everyone does.

S. Then let me ask you again. Who taught you?

A. Society.

S. You’re not relying on very serious teachers then.

A. What—you don’t think these people can teach?

S. They can’t even teach you how to play a board game well. And you think they can teach you about what’s just and unjust? What—isn’t that right?

A. Yes.

S. So they can’t teach trivial things, but only the more serious stuff?

A. Sure. Anyway, I like to think there are many serious things these people can teach.

S. Like what?

A. Well, for one, I did learn how to be Greek from them. I can’t name a teacher, I just rely on those you accuse of not being serious.

S. But, good sir, society is a good teacher of this, and it would be right to praise its teaching.

A. What?

S. In this instance, they have what it takes to be good teachers.

A. What do you mean?

S. You know you have to know something before teaching it, right?

A. Obviously.

S. So there won’t be any disputes? The ones who know will all agree with each other?

A. Yes.

S. Would you say they know the things they disagree about?

A. Of course not.

S. So if they disagree about something, could they teach it?

A. No way.

S. Well then, does it seem to you that society disagrees about what’s a stick and what’s a stone? That is, will they not give the same answers when asked, and go after the same things when they want to grab a stick or a stone? The same goes for all these kinds of things; maybe I’m catching on to what you mean by “knowing how to be Greek”?

A. You are.

S. So, as we said, individuals agree with one another and don’t waffle on these things? And disputes don’t arise between cities?

A. Of course not.

S. Then you would expect them to be good teachers of these things, at least.

A. Yes.

S. Then would we be right to direct someone to society’s teachings if we wanted them to know about those things?

A. Absolutely.

S. But what if we want to know more than what sorts of things are people or horses? Can society teach us which horses and which people are fastest?

A. Obviously not.

S. Since society can’t agree on these matters, isn’t that a good enough indication that it doesn’t know the answer and cannot illuminate these things for us?

A. Sure, for me it is.

S. And could we count on society to teach us who’s sickly and who’s healthy?

A. Obviously not.

S. And again, if you saw them disagreeing, wouldn’t this prove that they’re terrible teachers of this sort of thing?

A. It would for me.

S. So — are you telling me society also agrees about who or what is just or unjust?

A. That’s the last thing they’d agree on!

S. So you’re telling me it’s their biggest disagreement?

A. By a long shot.

S. I bet you’ve never seen or heard of people coming to blows over what’s healthy or not.

A. Of course not.

S. But I know you’ve at least heard lots of folks disagreeing about what’s just and unjust. You’ve of course listened to Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad.

A. Who hasn’t, Socrates?

S. Well, aren’t those poems about a conflict over what’s just and unjust?

A. Yes.

S. And the Greeks and Trojans fought and killed over this disagreement, as did Odysseus and Penelope’s suitors.

A. True.

S. Wasn’t it a disagreement over what’s just and unjust that led to all those Athenians and Spartans and Boeotians dying at the battle of Tanagra, and later at Coroneia, including your father?

A. True.

S. So when they really disagree, to the point that they’re willing to risk the greatest harm, should we still say they know?

A. Probably not.

S. Then you are relying on teachers who you agree do not know.

A. So it seems.

S. How likely is it that you know what’s just and unjust when you’ve gone back and forth on this? It’s clear you haven’t learned from anyone or discovered it yourself.

A. Not likely based on what you’re saying.

#translation #scholarly
In line with Smyth 2652, allo ti is translated as a direct interrogative.

#otherPlato
Socrates will often insist that those who really know something also know what it is they know—and that it is better to be ignorant but mindful of one’s ignorance (to “know that one knows nothing”) than to know something yet fail to recognize the limits of one’s knowledge. See Apology 21b-23b and 29b for an expression this view.

#cultural
That is, Zeus.

#otherPlato
For Socrates, the recognition of one’s ignorance is a key step in our learning. A nice illustration of this point can be found in the slave lesson presented in the Meno (82a-86c; see especially 84a-b).

#translation
The Greek word here is dialogoi, from which we get our term for Plato’s “dialogues.”

#otherplato #philosophical
One might wonder how well the view suggested here would cohere with Socrates’ self-presentation in other dialogues. In the Apology, for instance, we find a Socrates with strong convictions about what is just and unjust—a Socrates who claims to know that it is unjust to disobey one’s moral superior (29b), and who is prepared to risk his life to disobey a tyrant’s order he takes to be unjust (32b). Can Socrates profess ignorance about matters of justice and nonetheless express and act on convictions of this sort?
One possible response requires our distinguishing knowledge of what makes things just, and explains the justice of any just actions, from knowledge of particular instances of justice (obeying your moral superior is just, cheating at dice is unjust, and so on). The first kind of knowledge  amounts to a kind of expertise about some subject, while the second is everyday knowledge (so that you might, for instance, know that eating loads of sugar is bad for you, even if you don’t have the expertise to fully explain why). Socrates might thus think he is ignorant when it comes to this first kind of knowledge, since he is not an expert about justice, even while taking himself have the second, everyday kind of knowledge. But the distinction doesn’t seem to be on Alcibiades’ radar here.

#translation #scholarly
See Denyer, p.119, on the idiomatic use of to de, citing the LSJ entry “ho, he, to,” A.VIII.3: “τὸ δέ abs., but the fact is.” Denyer suggests “And how, in fact, were things?”

#translation
The Greek word here is logos, with meanings ranging from “speech” or “statement” to “account”, “principle” or “reason.” Socrates is not referring literally to a full argument here, but rather a single point or move within the argument (in this case, the same point made at 109d above).

#translation
The Greek phrase is ouk... spoudaios, literally “not... serious” though here translated as “worthless.” There are questions about what kind of worth this might be, especially when it is applied not only to teachers, but also to the things they teach. Are some subjects more worth taking seriously than others because they are harder? Or because they are worthier in some other way? (And, when Alcibiades claims that Greek is worthy, does he have in mind the same idea as Socrates does?)

#otherPlato
For a similar sentiment, see for instance Crito 47a-48b.

#cultural
The reference here is to petteia, a type of Greek game that typically involved tokens that were moved around a board. These are to be contrasted with kubeia, games that involve dice. For more information, including pictures of archaeological finds, see Ignatiadou, D. ‘Luxury Board Games for the Northern Greek Elite.’ Archimède: archéologie et histoire ancienne 6: 144-159
10.47245/archimede.0006.ds2.0 (open access)

#translation
phaulos, often translated “trivial,” is here contrasted with spoudaios (see note above).

#philosophical
How defensible is this principle? If to be “worthier” is to be more difficult, the principle might seem attractive: if someone can’t teach something less difficult, why think they can teach something more difficult? But this version of the principle is open to an objection. Someone may be unable to teach something less difficult simply because it doesn’t matter enough for them to have invested the time in understanding it, and able to teach something more difficult because it matters enough to deserve their attention. The very examples in the text, board games and justice, support this line of objection: we might explain the many’s inability to teach skill at board games by pointing to the insignificance of board games, not the cognitive deficiencies of the many. A similar objection will arise if we formulate the principle in terms of the value of the pursuit: we cannot infer that if someone cannot teach something less valuable, they cannot teach something more valuable, for the same reasons.

#cultural
The Greek word here, hellēnizō, has connotations of learning not only the Greek language but also Greek customs and norms. An alternate translation that brings in this normative valence would be “I also learned proper Greek from them.” (that is, “proper Greek” not as opposed to Greek slang, but rather what the Greeks perceived as the proper manners and values that go along with Greek culture. Denyer has a helpful, more extended note on this point (pp.121-2).

#Greektext #scholarly
Here Burnet prints epainoint’ (“[they would justly] be praised [for]”), which is found in some manuscripts. Denyer (p.122) conjectures epaniois (“you would [justly] refer back [to]”), suggesting that it was later corrupted. Since there is no manuscript evidence for Denyer’s alternative, we do not adopt it here. Talk of praise may not be out of place in context, where the goodness and worth of teachers are under examination.

#translation #philosophical
Denyer (p.123) suggests translating “which things are sticks or stones” (see LSJ IV), noting that poion (“what sort” might be used in place of ti “what,” to avoid confusion with the famous Socratic “what is it?” questions, which seek a definition. However,poion often asks after a thing’s qualities, and so the translation aims to preserve this possibility. At the same time, it does not demand it, insofar as “what sorts of things” might also be asking for an identification of some things and not an account of their qualities.

#philosophical #otherPlato
To know what sorts of things are sticks and stones is just to know some of the qualities of these things (e.g. sticks come from trees, stones can break glass, etc), where this is distinct from knowing what the thing is (the definition of the thing in question). It might seem possible to know the qualities of certain things without knowing the definition of the thing whose qualities one knows, especially if the standard for a definition is high (as it is for the Socrates Plato presents in his dialogues—see Euthyphro 10a-11b). In the Meno, however, Plato has Socrates and his interlocutor agree to an important principle: you cannot know what sort of thing something is if you don’t know what the thing is (71b). This invites the question later raised by Meno (80d5-7): how is learning possible, if one begins without knowing what something is, and one can’t even know what sort of thing something is without knowing what it is?

#translation
Socrates here uses manthanō (literally “learn,” here translated more colloquially “get a good idea of”) to express his apparently growing comprehension of Alcibiades’ suggestion. The same verb is translated elsewhere as “learn.”

#cultural #otherPlato
Something that would require expertise (in horse breeding or horsemanship), and about which Socrates suggests there are in fact experts (see Euthyphro 13a, Apology 25b, Meno 93d, Hippias Major 284a, and others—note also Alcibiades 121e, 124e).

#otherPlato
It’s not just the many who disagree about these things, but the gods, too (see Euthyphro 8d-e).

#cultural
This one of several terms that Homer uses to refer to the Greeks. The Iliad portrays part of the action of the famous Trojan War that took place when the Greeks banded together to seize the city of Troy.

#cultural
The battles mentioned here all took place in central Greece among the Greeks themselves. In 457 BCE the Athenians were defeated by the Spartans and Boeotians at Tanagra, but then the Athenians returned and captured Tanagra a few months later. The battle of Coroneia (also spelled Coronea) took place ten years later in 447 and was a significant Athenian defeat.

#philosophical #comparative
The argument in the text distinguishes between cases in which there is no actual disagreement between communities (e.g. the rules of the Greek language) and cases in which there is actual disagreement between communities (e.g. the nature of justice and injustice). But is actual disagreement about topic T necessary to make us doubt that the many know about T? We might think that the fact that the many present themselves as teachers of (say) justice even though they are not good teachers of justice should make us doubt their reliability in general, not just when there is disagreement. Or we might think something even more radical: that the fact that a source of knowledge that we have always trusted—our immediate communities—turned out to be unreliable should make us worried about other previously secure seeming avenues of knowledge.
al-Ghazali’s The Rescuer from Error, later in the philosophical tradition, takes up this last idea. It begins with the observation that what religious tradition we are raised in as children determines the religious tradition we adhere to as adults; but instead of restricting himself to the problem of disagreements in “conformist” beliefs, al-Ghazali uses this as motivation to examine other belief-forming mechanisms that he had previously considered secure, like perception.

#firstread #philosophical
There is a thought here that is central to Socrates’ project. In many of Plato’s dialogues, Socrates questions someone who should know something, given their social role (e.g., questioning a teacher of virtue about what virtue really is). It seems that Socrates does this in an attempt to show that, actually, the person does not have that knowledge. What’s the point? One answer might be to motivate the person to do some more thinking. If a person becomes aware that they are ignorant about something, especially something of importance, then (the hope is!) they will be motivated to try to figure it out.
Suppose that a teacher of virtue doesn’t really know what virtue is. In that case, they would be seriously misleading people. What might be useful, then, is to convince the teacher that actually they don’t know what virtue is, thus motivating them to spend some time discovering it before they return to teaching it.
But is this implicit thought true? Is it true that, in a slogan, awareness of ignorance motivates further inquiry? You might have your doubts. Someone ambitious for power and fame (like Alcibiades) might not care at all that they don’t really know what justice is. Who needs that? All that matters to them is appearing knowledgeable, not actually being knowledgeable. In that case, Socrates’ project would meet with a serious obstacle.

#firstread #philosophical
Socrates and Alcibiades seem to agree that a person will know something only if they were taught it or discovered it on their own. But there is at least one other possibility. Maybe we are born with knowledge. Maybe there is innate knowledge of some things. In fact, there is already some evidence in the dialogue that, when it comes to justice, people do have some sort of innate sense of it. Even as a boy, Alcibiades was certain that certain actions were unjust. More generally, children often perceive immediately when they have been treated unfairly. This is good evidence that people do have an innate sense of justice or fairness. You don’t really need to teach a child anything for that child to be able to perceive that they are being treated unfairly in some cases. However, it isn’t good evidence that people have innate knowledge of justice or fairness. If they did, then they wouldn’t ever misidentify when something is just or unjust.

#firstread #philosophical
The Greek phrase here, tōn pollōn, is often translated as “the many.” It can evoke an opposition between the common people (of whom there are many) and the elite (of whom there are not many). Other possibilities include “people in general,” “the people,” “the multitude,” “the masses,” or just “people.”

#firstread #philosophical #otherPlato
Socrates and Alcibiades agree to this general principle: if a person is able to teach something, then they must have knowledge of it. True or false? Maybe it is true in some cases but not in other cases. It is hard to imagine that a person could teach someone the structure of a biological cell without having knowledge of it herself. Imagine, though, cases where observing someone’s behavior provides useful instruction in how to act well. It could be that role models provide useful examples of what, for example, dignity or integrity really is even in cases where the role models do not have knowledge these things. In fact, this is one way to think of Socrates’ own sort of teaching. He claims to know nothing of any importance (Apology 21b-23b), but Plato reports that he provided an example to many people of how to live well (Phaedo 118a).

#firstread #philosophical
Imagine that two people disagree about the answer to 9583 divided by 7. Isn’t that enough to show that at least one of them does not know the right answer? If people disagree, then at least one of them does not know (of course, maybe all of them do not know). It seems that this principle is true for any case where there is a fact of the matter about the thing under dispute, that is, where there really is a right answer to it.

#firstread #philosophical #otherPlato
What’s translated here as “don’t waffle” is a word that, in the Greek, literally means to “agree with oneself”. What does it mean to agree with oneself? If this is to make any sense, then there must be at least two parts to a person: the part that makes the claim, and the part that agrees with it. This might sound odd at first, but probably you can remember a time in your life when one part of you (how else to say it?) thought that something was true (for example, thought that something was best for you to do), but another part of you had a different idea altogether. These are moments of internal conflict, tension, or disharmony, and, to many people, they are regrettably familiar. The opposite is when you do agree with yourself—moments of internal peace, relaxation, or harmony.
But what really are these parts anyway? Are there really multiple parts to a person’s mind or soul, similar to how there are multiple parts to a person’s body? Or is that just a metaphorical way of talking?
Plato has a lot to say about this. The best place to start is book 4 of the Republic, where Socrates argues that, for each of us, there are three parts to our mind or soul: an appetitive part, a rational part, and a spirited part.

#firstread #philosophical
Socrates observes that everyone agrees about what counts as a stick and what counts as a stone. He then infers that people in general would be good teachers of what a stone or stick is, more specifically, that people likely would be good teachers of this. Here, as often in philosophy, one word really matters. It doesn’t follow, of course, that people would be good teachers of something from the mere fact that they happen to agree about it. They might all be wrong! But it is more plausible that, if they do all agree about something, then they would likely be good teachers of it. After all, it is unlikely that so many people would be wrong about something they all agree upon. But it is not impossible.

#firstread #cultural
The Iliad and Odyssey are epic poems composed by Homer in what would have already been considered the ancient past in Plato’s time. They were standard reading for the education of Athenian elites and were commonly recited in public, including at the Panathenaic festival.

#firstread #cultural
The purported injustice of the suitors of Penelope, wife of Odysseus, plays a recurring role in the Odyssey. The suitors pursue Penelope despite her disinterest, taunt her son Telemachus, and even harass Odysseus himself after he returns from the Trojan War. Odysseus and Telemachus then ruthlessly slaughter all of the suitors.

#firstread #philosophical
Alcibiades admits that he probably does not know what’s just and unjust. Could we apply the same form of argument to other topics, to show that Alcibiades also doesn’t know about them? It seems that the argument should apply to anything we pick up from the people around us in childhood but about which there turns out to be disagreement within or between communities. Many of the most important things in our lives are like that. Here’s a different kind of example from the one given in the text: the meaning of identity categories (e.g., how a “real” man or woman behaves). What else do you think the argument might apply to?