The State E-Book

Plato

• Herausgeber: Filibooks Classics
• Kategorie: Bildung
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The State: A New Translation presents Plato's seminal work traditionally known as  The Republic in a clear, modern translation by Filibooks Translation. Plato's profound exploration of justice, virtue, governance, and society begins with Socrates drawn into a lively debate on the nature of justice. Through layered dialogues, Socrates and his interlocutors examine the foundations of a just city, debating virtue, education, the division of labor, and the qualities necessary in rulers. Plato systematically questions the principles of justice and the good life, arguing for an ideal society governed by philosopher-kings who balance wisdom, courage, moderation, and justice. This translation reinvigorates Plato's famous dialogues, making complex philosophical arguments accessible to contemporary readers and scholars alike.

Leseprobe

THE STATE

A NEW TRANSLATION

PLATO

Translated byFILIBOOKS TRANSLATION

Foreword byFILIBOOKS

Cover by: Filibooks Covers

Published by: Filibooks Classics

Filibooks ApS

[email protected]

CVR: 37100161

* * *

©Filibooks 2025

CONTENTS

Foreword

Book 1

Book 2

Book 3

Book 4

Book 5

Book 6

Book 7

Book 8

Book 9

Book 10

Afterword - Book 1

Afterword - Book 2

Afterword - Book 3

Afterword - Book 4

Afterword - Book 5

Afterword - Book 6

Afterword - Book 7

Afterword - Book 8

Afterword - Book 9

Afterword - Book 10

Notes

FOREWORD

Plato’s Republic—presented here as The State—has inspired countless readers to examine questions of governance, justice, and the nature of human flourishing. Though it emerged from the political and cultural climate of ancient Athens, it speaks across time, offering insights that remain deeply relevant to our lives. It is, at once, a reflection on the problems of power and a statement of faith in the transformative possibilities of reason. Understanding the work’s origins in antiquity, as well as its major themes and enduring influence, prepares us to engage with it in a thoughtful manner.

Plato lived in the late fifth and early fourth centuries BCE, when his home city of Athens endured upheavals that tested the stability of its famed democracy. This was the period of the Peloponnesian War—a prolonged conflict with Sparta—and the internal crises that followed. Democracy itself, which had once been a source of pride and identity in Athens, seemed fragile. It faced periodic interruptions by oligarchic rulers, who seized power in times of anxiety, and by brief episodes of tyranny, which shook the Athenians’ faith in the capacity of any government to guarantee peace and prosperity. Born into this volatile setting, Plato belonged to a family that was well-connected in civic affairs. As a young man, he witnessed how political instability weighed on friends, mentors, and relatives. No doubt these experiences gave urgency to the questions at the heart of his writing. The State, for that reason, is neither an abstract exercise nor an idle meditation; it is a sustained response to pressing issues of the day.

At the center of The State is Socrates, Plato’s teacher and a legendary figure in the history of philosophy. Socrates participated in public life but dedicated himself to a different kind of engagement: dialogic inquiry. Rather than accept inherited customs at face value, he posed questions designed to test the soundness of widely held beliefs. His method—often called the Socratic method—consisted of careful interrogation, looking for contradictions and exposing superficial assumptions. Although Socrates left no writings of his own, Plato recorded him in conversations on topics ranging from ethics to epistemology. In The State, Socrates leads a lively and extended discussion about the nature of justice. He pursues its definition methodically, and the conversation unfolds in such a way that we—readers from far beyond the Athenian city walls—become participants in this search. By probing the meaning of justice, he compels us to examine personal ideals and social conventions.

Ancient Athens cultivated a strong tradition of public debate, and many citizens prided themselves on oratory skills. This aspect of civic life shaped the dialogue form in which Plato wrote. Unlike a treatise that lays out a strict argument from start to finish, a dialogue moves by way of conversation, prompting reflection from various perspectives. Through this style, Plato creates a theater for ideas, revealing them through personalities and interjections rather than presenting them in a single authoritative voice. For those unfamiliar with the era, Athens was a city-state that, at least in principle, expected direct participation in governance from all free male citizens. This method of civic engagement was new in the world at that time, and it served as a model of self-rule for some later societies. Yet Athens’s democracy could be as turbulent as it was innovative, and The State captures Plato’s search for a political system he believed could stand firm against the tides of fortune, factionalism, and short-term thinking.

As a result, the question “What is justice?” serves as the dialogue’s foundation. Socrates and his friends approach it in a roundabout manner, starting with the idea that it may be easier to spot justice in a political community than to find it in a single individual’s soul. By constructing an imaginary city and watching it develop in thought, they reveal how justice might emerge, and in turn, how injustice might contaminate a society. Within this ideal city, Plato articulates the concept of social stratification according to distinct aptitudes: one group is best at governance and administration, another at defense, and yet another at various crafts. This framework is not offered lightly; Plato believed that if each individual practiced what they were best suited to do, the entire community would function harmoniously. Though this idea of “each person doing one thing” might seem foreign to some modern readers, for the Athenians—and for all those who worry about how to structure civic responsibilities—this model delivered a coherent explanation of order grounded in reasoned choice.

The guardians, who stand at the top of Plato’s hierarchy, are selected for their inclination toward wisdom and their unwillingness to pursue selfish gains. Plato depicts them undertaking a rigorous program of education, emphasizing both the cultivation of the mind and the discipline of the body. While many political thinkers before him had noted the importance of education, Plato gave it a systematic and philosophical rationale, proposing a lifelong process that aims to develop the moral character of those charged with leading. He argued that guardians must cultivate habits of careful thinking so they will look after the city’s interests rather than their own. This emphasis on education, especially its moral component, continues to resonate in contemporary discussions about how citizens and leaders ought to be prepared for public life.

One of the dialogue’s more provocative sections deals with censorship and the impact of stories. According to Plato, myth and poetry wield strong influence over how people interpret virtue and vice. He thus voices concern about the moral implications of certain tales, especially those of the poets who were legendary in Athens for their evocative work. Readers today might feel uneasy with the idea that the state should regulate art. Yet Plato’s more general point—that creative expressions shape values—retains an enduring relevance. Contemporary debates over media content, public messaging, and cultural norms echo his belief that narratives can either cultivate virtuous tendencies or undermine them. While Plato’s proposed methods may appear restrictive, they underscore how central he considered the moral imagination to be for a healthy society.

Within this wide-ranging conversation, Plato also addresses a philosophical puzzle at the core of the text: How does one reconcile the needs of a community with the individual quest for happiness? Many of the participants in the dialogue propose that a person’s self-interest might stand in tension with the common good. Socrates, however, contends that living justly aligns with one’s genuine self-interest. This counters the notion that political ideals simply curb personal freedom. Plato’s vision of a well-ordered city affirms the concept that when social structures reward virtue and discourage vice, individuals can find true fulfillment. The tension between the public sphere and private aspirations, which informs so much modern political thought, is visible in this ancient text.

What gives The State its lasting power is its layered reflection on the nature of truth. The famous allegory of the cave, while not explored in full detail in the earlier portions of the dialogue, later appears as part of Plato’s broader theory. In this allegory, human beings are likened to cave dwellers who see only the shadows of reality, mistaking these mere silhouettes for the real forms that cast them. The philosophical journey becomes an effort to leave the cave, ascend into the light, and see reality as it truly is. While the allegory itself is not confined to the subject of politics, its inclusion in Plato’s outline of the guardian’s education anchors the city’s governance in the quest for knowledge. For Plato, the best rulers are those who have struggled to see beyond appearances and who can guide others toward the same vision. That image continues to spark conversation about leadership and insight in the modern world. It suggests that civic responsibility involves more than the mere exercise of authority; it demands an appreciation of deeper truths that cannot be grasped through superficial observation.

Plato’s investment in metaphysics—his interest in what truly exists, and how we can know it—distinguishes him from political writers who prefer concrete policy proposals. The State is philosophical in that it aims to root political life in truths that transcend fleeting desires or local biases. Some readers may find parts of the argument too theoretical, yearning instead for real-world guidance. Yet the work’s influence can be seen in later philosophers—from Augustine to Machiavelli, from Rousseau to modern democratic theorists—who wrestle with how to balance idealism with pragmatism. In the centuries since Plato composed this dialogue, it has come to symbolize the classic statement that we cannot disentangle moral virtues from civic structures. Indeed, the idea that a better citizenry relies on deeper self-knowledge drives the entire text.

Still, Plato’s interlocutors ask questions we continue to face: Is justice merely a cover for power, or does it fulfill a genuine moral requirement? If people act justly only out of fear of punishment, can that truly be called virtue? How should societies manage disagreement and dissent, especially when these disagreements cut to the heart of what we value? In exploring these uncertainties, the conversation in The State captures something universal: an awareness that no single arrangement of institutions can survive without a population committed to the principles that animate those institutions.

In considering its modern-day significance, it is worth noting how The State anticipates many of the dilemmas that arise whenever political communities try to define fairness, equity, and the rule of law. Plato believed an ideal city would create conditions for moral excellence, but he also recognized the vulnerability of such an arrangement to human failings—ambition, greed, vanity. History abounds with examples of how noble aspirations can become distorted by these tendencies. Readers who approach The State in a contemporary setting may be struck by the dialogue’s cautionary undertones: good laws and constitutions matter, but they are always reliant on the virtues of those entrusted to uphold them.

These reflections can inspire us to view politics not merely as a competition for power but as an ongoing negotiation among individuals, each shaped by moral, intellectual, and spiritual dimensions. People who read The State often come away reflecting on their personal conduct in the public sphere—whether at a local meeting, a classroom, or any forum where decisions affecting others take place. Plato’s repeated emphasis on self-mastery, thorough education, and conscientious governance continues to offer direction to those worried about the failings and fractures that can disrupt communal life. This concern with moral introspection extends beyond the boundaries of ancient Athens, reminding us that the obligations of citizenship and leadership do not vanish with the passage of time.

At a basic level, the text’s dialectical structure challenges us to consider a skill that is often overlooked: the capacity to listen well. Socrates and his companions do more than express their views; they press, refine, and rework them in light of objections. That model suggests that political discourse is fruitful when people engage one another in honest, searching dialogue. Readers, in turn, may apply this lesson to contemporary conversations, evaluating whether they are as open-minded in their listening as they are certain in their opinions. This emphasis on dialogic exchange is an enduring gift of The State: the reminder that learning and policy-making both flourish in an environment where rigorous questioning is welcomed rather than dismissed.

Translating Plato for modern readers has long been a challenging endeavor. Ancient Greek differs in structure, tone, and nuance from contemporary speech, and The State is filled with references to Greek customs, myths, and practices that can be unfamiliar to us. In this new translation, care has been taken to strike a balance between precision and accessibility. Terms like “guardian” or “auxiliary” carry specific connotations in the original text, and they have been rendered here in ways meant to convey both their literal sense and their spirit. It is inevitable that some flavor of the ancient conversation will be lost, for it was first spoken among men who could point, with the same word, to love between friends, to duty in civic life, or even to passion for wisdom itself. Yet the aim of this translation is to preserve as much as possible of the dialogue’s vitality and depth. While the philosophical substance remains, the style has been refined to suit modern expectations of clarity, so that newcomers to Plato can navigate these topics with greater ease.

Though many readers approach The State out of an interest in classical philosophy, the text need not be reserved for specialists. It can be read as an introduction to ethics, a probing reflection on education, or an exploration of how imaginative stories shape cultural norms. Those well versed in political science may engage with Plato’s notion of an ideal society, grappling with whether such a vision can be brought to life without sacrificing freedoms. People drawn to literature and art may focus on the sections that consider the power of poetry and myth. And those intrigued by psychology or personal development might dwell on the connection Plato draws between the just society and the well-ordered soul. However one encounters it, the work offers multiple avenues for inquiry.

Because it transcends disciplinary boundaries, The State can feel almost inexhaustible. Its arguments lead us toward reflection on what it means to be human: how we search for truth, grapple with mortality, and commit ourselves to communal projects that can outlast any single lifetime. In shining a light on how citizens might act when guided by wisdom, Plato holds up a mirror to our present, encouraging us to ask whether our own civic structures nurture the best in us or unintentionally reward narrow ambitions. We may see echoes of his imagined city in our own institutions, or we may find ourselves at odds with his proposed solutions. Either way, the invitation is to think critically about where we stand.

What we can say with confidence is that The State has lost none of its capacity to provoke, challenge, and inspire. If anything, our modern context—full of rapid communication, global commerce, and diverse cultural landscapes—makes Plato’s focus on thoughtful civic participation all the more relevant. Questions about how to organize public institutions, how to educate the next generation, and how to guard against corruption remain with us. Although times have changed and no single text can address every contemporary puzzle, Plato’s meditation on justice reminds us that certain basic moral and intellectual efforts remain indispensable. We still need to look inward, cultivating personal integrity, while also looking outward to shape fair rules and shared values.

In reading this dialogue, you may notice how the characters shift among familiarity, skepticism, and wonder. Plato’s dramatic approach allows us to witness the process of discovery as it happens, with setbacks and revelations along the way. That dramatic quality helps account for why The State is regarded not just as a treatise in political theory but also as a literary milestone. The interplay of argument, narrative, and illustration—a tapestry of logic and metaphor—guides us into new perspectives on old problems.

This foreword, then, invites you to join a conversation that has been ongoing for more than two thousand years. While translations and historical contexts vary, the heartbeat of the text remains constant: it is a call to think—about ourselves, about our collective endeavors, and about the ideals we claim to pursue. Whether you come as a seasoned scholar or a curious newcomer, you will find in these pages a challenge to engage with first principles and to question even your most cherished assumptions. Plato believed true understanding is not given but earned, through sustained attention and a willingness to revise our views if they prove inadequate.

If these themes seem weighty, it is because their implications can shape an entire civilization. They reach from the intimate world of personal conscience to the vast sphere of public legislation. And so, whether you read a single page or linger over every paragraph, may you find that The State sharpens your sense of what is possible. May it call you toward a diligent study of justice and embolden you to look beyond surface appearances. However far you journey with this text, may it bring a clarity that helps you recognize the choices available within your own community.

With that, I encourage you to approach the dialogue with fresh eyes. Allow yourself the time to pause over Plato’s arguments. Listen to Socrates. Observe Glaucon and Adeimantus as they sift through competing claims about what matters most in human affairs. Reflect on the city they build in conversation, and ask yourself which parts ring true in your experience. The reward for this effort—if you follow the discussion with care—is not merely intellectual. It is an invitation to think more deeply about civic friendship, ethical responsibility, and the path to a grounded life. Plato sets a high bar by suggesting that to be just is also to be happy, pushing us to wonder whether we can truly flourish without the virtues he defends. For all its depth and occasional difficulty, The State ultimately stands as a testament to the power of thought to guide how we live and how we govern.

BOOK1

I went down to the Piraeus yesterday with Glaucon, son of Ariston, intending both to offer prayers to the goddess⁠1 and to watch how they would conduct the festival, as they were celebrating it for the first time. Indeed, the procession of the local inhabitants seemed to me beautiful, though that of the Thracians was no less impressive. After we had prayed and observed the spectacle, we set off homeward toward the city. Seeing us from a distance heading that way, Polemarchus, son of Cephalus, told his servant to run and call us to wait for him. The boy came up behind me, took hold of my cloak, and said, “Polemarchus wants you to wait.” I turned and asked where he was. “He is coming up behind,” the boy replied, “so please wait.” Glaucon said, “Then we must wait.”

Soon after, Polemarchus approached, accompanied by Adeimantus, the brother of Glaucon, and also Niceratus, son of Nicias, and some others returning from the procession. Polemarchus said, “Socrates, it appears to me that you are hurrying back to the city, as if you mean to leave us.” “Your guess is right,” I said. “But do you see how many we are?” he asked. “Of course,” I said. “Either you must prove yourselves stronger than we are,” he said, “or you must stay here.” I responded, “Is there still room for one possibility—that we might persuade you to let us go?” “Could you really persuade men who refuse to listen?” he said. “Certainly not,” Glaucon answered. “Then consider that you will not be heard,” said Polemarchus.

Then Adeimantus said, “Do you not know that there will be a torch race at night in honor of the goddess on horseback?” “On horseback?” I said. “That’s something new. Will they pass the torches to one another while racing on horseback, or how do you mean?” Polemarchus answered, “That’s exactly it. And besides, they will hold an all-night festival that is worth seeing. After dinner, we will get up to watch the night-long revels, and we will meet plenty of young people there and talk with them. So do stay, and don’t do otherwise.” Glaucon said, “It seems we must remain.” “If that is what you all think,” I said, “then that’s what we should do.”

So we went to Polemarchus’s house. There we found Lysias and Euthydemus, his brothers, and also Thrasymachus of Chalcedon, Charmantides of Paeania, and Cleitophon, son of Aristonymus. Polemarchus’s father, Cephalus, was also indoors. He seemed to me quite old, for it had been some time since I last saw him. He was seated, wearing a wreath, on a cushioned chair; for he had just been offering sacrifices in the courtyard. We sat down beside him, for there were seats arranged in a circle. The moment he saw me, Cephalus greeted me and said, “Socrates, you do not come down to visit us in the Piraeus as often as you should. Yet you should do so. For if I were still able to make the journey easily to the city, you would not need to come here; we would come to you. As it is, though, you must visit us more frequently. Be assured that as other bodily pleasures wither away in me, my desire for conversations and pleasures of reason grows. So don’t refuse but keep company with these young men too, and come to us just as to friends and family.”

I replied, “Indeed, Cephalus, I enjoy conversing with the very old; it seems to me one ought to learn from them as from travelers who have gone before us on a road that we too may have to walk. They can tell us whether that road is rough and difficult, or smooth and easy. And so I would gladly learn from you what you think, now that you have reached the age that poets call ‘the threshold of old age.’ Is it a difficult part of life, or what is your report?”

“By Zeus, Socrates,” he said, “I will tell you exactly what it seems like to me. Often some of us of about the same age gather together, preserving that old saying that people of the same age like each other’s company. When we do meet, most of them lament: They long for the pleasures of youth, recalling sexual adventures, feasting, drinking, and other things that go along with such indulgences, and they fret as though they were deprived of something important, as if then they truly lived well, but now they do not live at all. Some of them even complain about the abuse they suffer from their families as a result of old age, and on this pretext they lament that old age is the cause of many evils. However, I think those who talk like that blame the wrong thing. If old age were truly the cause, I too would have suffered the same effects, at least as far as old age goes, and so would everyone else who has reached this stage of life. But I have actually met people who do not feel that way—furthermore, once I happened to be with the poet Sophocles when someone asked him, ‘Sophocles, how are you in regard to love? Can you still have intercourse with a woman?’ And he answered, ‘Hush, man; most gladly did I flee from it, as though escaping from some frenzied and savage master.’ Even at that time, he seemed to me to have spoken well, and now he does not seem less right. For in old age one is especially at peace and free from all such things; once the passions relent and cease to strain, one is wholly rid of many mad masters. And indeed, for the troubles that arise with one’s household, the same single cause lies behind them—namely, not old age, Socrates, but the character of each individual. For those who are moderate and even-tempered, old age is not a burden; while to someone of the opposite sort, both old age and youth prove painful.”

I was delighted with these words and, wanting him to say more, I urged him on: “Cephalus, I believe that most people, upon hearing you say such things, will not agree. They think you bear old age easily not because of your character but because of your wealth. For the wealthy, they say, have many consolations.” “You are right,” he said. “They do not accept what I say; but in one respect they have a point, though not to the extent they think. There is a witty saying of Themistocles that fits: When a man from Seriphus insulted him, claiming that Themistocles was only famous because of his city, he answered, ‘Neither would I have been well-known if I were from Seriphus, nor would that man be famous if he were from Athens.’ And for men without wealth who find old age burdensome, the same saying applies: Neither would a decent person bear old age easily if he were poor, nor would a bad one ever be contented with himself even if he were rich.”

“But tell me, Cephalus,” I said, “did you inherit most of your possessions, or did you acquire them yourself?” “Acquire them myself?” he replied. “I stand in the middle, somewhere between my grandfather and my father. My grandfather, whose name I bear, inherited wealth about the size of what I now possess and multiplied it many times over; my father, Lysias, made it smaller than it is now. As for me, I am content if I leave it to these young men here no less but rather slightly more than I received.”

“The reason I asked,” I said, “is that I think you do not value your wealth overly—something those who have gained it themselves generally do. They care about their money double what others do, like poets who love their own poems and fathers who cherish their own children. In the same way, those who have made their own money feel such devotion to it, as though to their own handiwork, and hence they are difficult company, willing to praise nothing but riches.” “You speak truly,” he said.

“Very well,” I said. “Then tell me this as well: What is the greatest benefit you believe you have gained from possessing considerable wealth?” “Something that I might not persuade many people of,” he said, “but know this well, Socrates: When someone thinks the hour of death is near, fear and concern enter his mind for things that did not trouble him before. Tales are told of what awaits in Hades—that the unjust must pay the penalty there—and though he used to mock such stories, at that moment his soul turns fearful that they might be true. Either because of the weakness of old age or, as though drawing nearer to those realms, he sees them more clearly. So he becomes full of misgivings and dread, and he starts to consider and reflect whether he has done anyone wrong. One who finds in his life a multitude of injustices often wakes in alarm from sleep, like children, and lives in foreboding; but one who is conscious of no wrongdoing has sweet hope for a companion—an ever-present good nurse to his old age, as Pindar says.”

For he who has led a life of justice and holiness sweet hope, fostering his heart, attends, a nurse of his old age, guiding the restless mind of mortal men⁠2.

“That poet, Socrates, speaks most charmingly. And to that point I especially ascribe the worth of possessing money, at least for a person who is decent and moderate. For it helps in no small measure that one need not deceive anyone unwillingly or defraud him, and one need not depart for the other world owing sacrifices to a god or money to a mortal. Surely in this regard—and in many others—the possession of wealth is of great benefit to any sensible man.”

“Well said indeed, Cephalus,” I replied. “But let us return to our initial topic: justice. Shall we define justice simply as telling the truth and returning whatever one has received from someone else? Or might there be times when this is right or not right to do? Consider this example: Everyone would say that if a sane man entrusts his weapons to a friend, and then demands them back when he has gone mad, one ought not to return them, nor would a just person return them, nor yet be willing to tell him the whole truth in that state.” “Quite right,” he said.

“So telling the truth and returning what one has received is not a correct definition of justice,” I continued. Polemarchus interjected, “You are absolutely right, if we are to trust Simonides.” “And yet,” Cephalus said, “I entrust the argument to you and must now look after the religious rites.” “Well then, it’s yours to inherit, Polemarchus,” I said. Cephalus laughed and went off to tend his sacrifices. “Tell me, then,” I said, “you who inherit the discussion, how is Simonides right about justice?”

“He says,” Polemarchus replied, “that it is just to give to each what is owed to him. In saying that, I think he speaks well.” “But still,” I said, “it is not easy to doubt Simonides, since he was a wise and godlike man; yet I do not fully understand what he meant. He surely cannot have meant precisely what we just said—that one should return to someone out of his mind what he has deposited, even if one borrowed it from him. Indeed, that would be something owed, wouldn’t it?” “Certainly.” “But it wouldn’t be right to return it in such a case?” “True,” Polemarchus replied. “So evidently, Simonides must have had something else in mind when he said that justice consists in giving back what is owed.” “Indeed he did, by Zeus,” he answered, “for he believed that friends owe it to friends to do good, not harm.”

“I see,” I said, “that if a deposit of gold has been entrusted by a friend who later demands it back though it would be harmful for him to receive it, then the friend who returns it is not giving what is owed. And you claim that is how Simonides understands it?” “Exactly,” he said. “So what about enemies? Must one give them what is owed to them?” “Yes, indeed,” he said. “To each enemy is owed precisely what is fitting—namely some harm.” “So it seems, as is typical of a poet, Simonides was speaking in riddles. He intended that justice is rendering what is proper to each, but he called that ‘what is owed.’” “What do you think?” he asked.

“By Zeus,” I said, “suppose someone had asked him, ‘Simonides, what art is it that renders to each what is owed and fitting?’ Do you think he would have replied, ‘the art of medicine, which dispenses drugs, drink, and food to bodies?’” “Certainly not,” Polemarchus replied. “Or ‘the art of cookery, which hands out seasoning to meats’?” “Of course not,” he said. “Then what art would we call that which renders to each person what is owed and fitting, so that we term it justice?” “Following the argument so far, Socrates, it would seem to be the art of serving friends and harming enemies.” “So by that account, justice is doing good to friends and harm to enemies?” “Yes, that’s how it seems to me.” “Who then can best serve his friends and harm his enemies in matters of sickness and health?” “A physician.” “And who in the dangers of sea voyages?” “A ship’s captain.” “In what activity, then, and to what aim is the just person the most capable of helping friends and harming enemies?” “In warfare and alliances, it seems to me.”

“Yet, my friend Polemarchus, when people are not sick, the physician is useless to them.” “That’s true.” “And when they are not sailing, the captain is useless.” “Yes.” “Must we then say that in peacetime the just person is useless?” “That cannot be right.” “So justice is also useful in peacetime?” “It is.” “Just like farming is useful for obtaining crops—correct?” “Yes.” “And shoemaking for acquiring footwear?” “Yes, surely.” “Then to what use or acquisition in peacetime would you say justice is of service?” “Contracts, Socrates.” “By ‘contracts,’ you mean partnerships?” “Indeed I do.” “And for placing stones in walls, is the just man—or rather the builder—more useful?” “The builder.” “And for placing draughts on a board, the just man or the draught-player?” “The latter.” “Then in what kind of partnership is the just man a better partner than the musician in a musical partnership, as the musician is better than the just man in playing notes?” “It would be in the safekeeping of money, I think.”

“Unless perhaps, Polemarchus, when you actually need to use the money to buy or sell a horse together, then the horseman is more helpful. Am I right?” “It appears so.” “And if you need to buy or sell a ship, a shipbuilder or a pilot would be more useful?” “So it seems.” “Whenever you do not need to use the money but only to keep it safe, then the just man is more useful?” “Yes, that appears to be the case.” “So it turns out that justice is only useful for what is useless—namely, storing money when you do not intend to use it.” “That may be so.” “And likewise, if you need to keep a sickle safe, whether on your own or with another, justice is useful; but if you need to use it, you call on the farmer’s art. And similarly for a shield or a lyre: if you need merely to keep them safe but not use them, justice is useful—if you do need to use them, it’s the soldier’s or the musician’s skill that comes into play.” “Indeed.” “Hence, for all other matters, justice is quite useless in actual use, and helpful only when those things are idle.” “So it seems.”

“Then justice, dear friend, would not be anything very important if it proves valuable only for useless things. But let’s consider another point. Isn’t the boxer best able both to land a blow in a fight and to guard against one?” “Certainly.” “And the one most adept at preventing disease is also most skilled at stealthily inflicting it, if he wants?” “Yes, I think so.” “Again, the same person who is the best guardian of an army’s camp is also the best at stealing the enemy’s plans and everything else?” “Certainly.” “Then whoever is adept at guarding something is equally adept at stealing it.” “So it seems.” “Hence, if a just man is a good guardian of money, he is also a good thief, according to this line of argument. Indeed, you might even have learned this from Homer, for he admires Autolycus, the maternal grandfather of Odysseus, and calls him ‘beyond all men in thievery and in oaths⁠3.’ So it appears that justice, by your account and by Homer’s and Simonides’ as well, is some form of thievery that helps one’s friends and harms one’s enemies. Isn’t that what you said?” “I no longer know what I said,” Polemarchus replied. “But still, it seems to me that justice is a matter of helping one’s friends and harming one’s enemies.”

“Now,” I asked, “when you say ‘friends,’ do you mean those who seem good to each person or those who truly are good, even if they do not appear so? And likewise with enemies?” “Usually,” he said, “people love those they consider good and hate those they consider bad.” “But don’t people make mistakes about this, so that many who seem good to them are not, and vice versa?” “Yes, they do make such mistakes.” “Then in that case, for those who have made an error, good men are their enemies and bad men their friends.” “Yes, indeed.” “Yet in that case they must still do good to those who are bad and harm those who are good—according to your argument.” “It would follow,” he said. “But the good are just and do no wrong, correct?” “Certainly.” “So by this argument it is just to do harm to those who do no wrong?” “No, that can’t be right, Socrates. Our argument seems bad now.”

“So it is just to harm the unjust and help the just?” I asked. “Yes, that is a more beautiful line of argument.” “But in that event,” I said, “many people who err will find themselves harming their friends, for they really are bad, and helping their enemies, who really are good. Thus we would say the opposite of what we once attributed to Simonides.” “True,” he said. “Let’s revise: we seem to have made a mistake in defining friend and enemy.” “How should we define them, then, Polemarchus?” “One should call ‘friend’ the man who both seems good and is good, and ‘enemy’ the one who seems bad and is indeed bad. As for one who merely seems good but is not, let us say that he merely seems a friend but is not—and the same for the enemy.”

“According to this new formulation,” I said, “a friend is a truly good person, an enemy is truly bad.” “Yes.” “Then we must add to our earlier statement about justice—once we said that justice is ‘doing good to friends and harm to enemies,’ but now we add that the friend must actually be good, and the enemy must actually be bad.” “Yes, that is how it now seems properly stated.” “Well then, my dear Polemarchus, is it ever just for a just man to harm anyone at all?” “Certainly one ought to harm those who are both bad and enemies.” “When horses are harmed, do they become better or worse?” “Worse.” “Worse in terms of horsely virtue or in terms of canine virtue?” “In terms of horsely virtue.” “And when dogs are harmed, they become worse in dogly virtue, not in horsely virtue?” “Of necessity.” “Then must we not say that when human beings are harmed, they become worse with respect to their distinctive human virtue?” “Certainly.” “But justice is a human virtue, is it not?” “Of course.” “Hence, when someone is harmed, he becomes more unjust.” “It seems so.” “Can musicians, by the art of music, cause others to become unmusical? Or can horsemen, by the art of riding, cause people to lose their equestrian skill?” “That’s impossible.” “Similarly, by justice, can just men make people unjust? Or in general, can good men, through virtue, make others bad?” “No, that is impossible.” “For heat does not bring about cold but its opposite?” “Yes.” “Nor does dryness cause wetness but the opposite?” “Certainly.” “Likewise, goodness does not harm but its opposite does.” “So it seems.” “Now a just person is good?” “Indeed.” “Therefore, it is not the function of a just man to harm a friend or anyone else, but rather that of his opposite—the unjust man.” “I think what you say is entirely true, Socrates.”

“So if someone says that justice is ‘repaying what one owes’ and means that a just person should harm his enemies and help his friends, that person was not wise in saying so, for it was not the truth. Indeed, we have found that it is in no way just to harm anyone.” “I agree,” he said. “So we shall fight as allies, you and I, if anyone claims that statement was made by Simonides or Bias or Pittacus or any other wise and blessed man.” “Certainly,” he said, “I am ready to join that fight.” I then added, “I wonder from whom that saying came, that to benefit friends and harm enemies is just?” “Probably Periander, or Perdiccas, or Xerxes, or Ismenias of Thebes, or someone else of those who think that might makes right and are proud of their own strength.” “You speak most truly,” he said.

“Well then,” I said, “since this was found not to be justice, or the just, what else might one say it is?” At this point Thrasymachus had tried many times during our discussion to take over the conversation but was prevented by those sitting around us, who wanted to hear our argument out. But when we paused, and I had spoken those words, he could no longer keep quiet: he gathered himself like a wild beast about to spring, and he charged at us as if to tear us apart.

Glaucon and I were frightened and startled, but Thrasymachus roared into our midst: “What nonsense have you two been talking all this time, Socrates? Why do you go on giving way to each other in this foolish, self-deprecating way? If you really want to know what justice is, do not merely ask questions or play at confuting any answer one gives—knowing well that it is easier to ask than to answer—but do you yourself give an answer and say what you claim justice is. And do not tell me it is the right, or the beneficial, or the profitable, or the gainful, or the advantageous, but speak plainly and precisely, for I will not accept such rubbish from you.” I was quite taken aback at his outburst and, looking at him, I grew afraid. Indeed, had I not seen him first, I might have been struck dumb. But when I saw him growing fierce, I looked back at him in time to find the words to reply: “Thrasymachus, do not be hard on us. If we are in error in our debate, rest assured we do so unwillingly. For do you suppose that, if we were searching for gold, we would deliberately yield to each other out of politeness and so ruin our chance of finding it, when we consider justice, a matter far more valuable than gold, to be searching for something so important—and yet behave senselessly by giving way to one another? Rather, I believe we are simply not able to find the answer. We deserve sympathy more than anger from you experts, not harshness.”

When he heard me, he gave a scornful laugh and said, “By Heracles, this is the well-known Socratic irony! I told these people in advance that you would refuse to answer and would instead feign ignorance and do anything rather than give a direct reply if someone asked you a question.” “My dear Thrasymachus,” I said, “do you think you are so wise that, if you asked someone how many are twelve, adding a warning—‘Don’t you dare tell me it is twice six, or thrice four, or six times two, or four times three, for I won’t accept your nonsense’—do you suppose that any man would answer your question under such conditions? But suppose he said to you: ‘Thrasymachus, how shall I respond? Shall I not speak any of the things you forbade, even if they are indeed the truth? Or what do you mean?’ What would you say to him then?” “That is not at all the same as this,” Thrasymachus replied. “Nothing prevents it from being similar,” I said. “But whether or not it is truly alike, if the person asked the question sees it that way, do you think he will answer anything other than what seems right to him, whether you forbid it or not?” “By no means,” he said.

“Well then,” Thrasymachus said, “is this what you will do? Answer me with one of those points I have forbidden?” “I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said, “if that is how it appears to me upon reflection.” “What if I show another answer, better than all these definitions of justice? What would you deserve then?” “Only what befits one who does not know,” I answered, “namely, to learn from you—you may be sure that’s what I desire.” “You are pleasant indeed,” said Thrasymachus, “but besides learning, you must also pay me some money.” “Of course,” I said, “once I have it.” “But you do have it,” said Glaucon. “Speak on, Thrasymachus, for all of us will contribute for Socrates.” “Oh yes,” he replied, “so that Socrates can do what he always does: he himself refuses to answer, and once someone else does, he takes up the argument to refute it.” I responded, “But dear fellow, how could anyone answer who claims not to know and makes no pretense of knowledge, especially when a fine thinker like you forbids him to speak what he believes? As for you, it is proper for you to speak, since you say you do know and can tell us. So, please do us the favor—do not begrudge teaching Glaucon, the rest of us, and especially me.”

At this, both Glaucon and the others joined me in urging Thrasymachus not to refuse. He was plainly eager to speak and to earn himself admiration, but he pretended to want me to be the one answering. Finally, however, he gave in: “Here is Socrates’s characteristic craftiness,” he said. “He will not teach, but wanders around learning from others, and then fails to repay them with any gratitude.” “What I do learn from others,” I said, “you spoke truly of that, Thrasymachus. But that I show no gratitude is false. I do repay as much as I can: I praise them wholeheartedly. That is all the payment I have, for I have no money. And how eagerly I do praise anyone who seems to me to speak well! You shall see straightaway when you speak, for I expect you will speak well.” “Listen,” he said. “I say that justice is nothing other than the advantage of the stronger. Now why do you not praise me? But I’m sure you will not do so.” “I shall, once I learn what you mean,” I answered. “Right now, I do not yet understand. You say that justice is the advantage of the stronger—what in the world do you mean by that, Thrasymachus? Surely you do not mean something like this: if the strongest among us, Polydamas the pankratiast, finds that eating beef is beneficial for his body, it is also just and beneficial for the rest of us who are weaker?” “You are detestable, Socrates,” he replied, “and you twist my words for your own mischief.”

“Certainly not, my excellent man,” I answered. “But speak more clearly.” “Do you not know,” he said, “that in each city there is a ruling power—here tyranny, there democracy, and elsewhere aristocracy?” “Yes, of course.” “And each government sets down laws for its own advantage—a democracy democratic laws, a tyranny tyrannical laws, and so on. Once they have made these laws, they declare that obedience to them is just for those who are governed, and they punish anyone who breaks them as lawless and unjust. Thus, my good fellow, in all cities alike, the notion of ‘justice’ is the same: the advantage of the established authority. Since the government is the stronger, it follows that the just is always that which benefits the stronger.” “Now,” I said, “I finally understand what you are saying. Whether it is true is something I shall try to discover. In any case, you say that justice is some kind of benefit, yet you add that it is for the benefit of the stronger—though you did forbid me to talk of advantage. But in any event, that is now part of your statement, and I shall have to examine it.”

“Go ahead and examine it,” he said. “I will,” I replied. “Tell me then: do you also say that it is just to obey the rulers?” “Indeed I do.” “But are those rulers infallible in each city, or are they capable of error?” “Certainly they can err,” he said. “When they undertake to make laws, sometimes they set them down correctly, sometimes incorrectly?” “No doubt about that.” “If they set them down correctly, the laws benefit themselves; if incorrectly, they do the opposite. Or do you mean something else?” “No, that is how I see it.” “And whatever laws they have enacted must be followed by their subjects, and this is justice?” “Of course.” “Then, by your account, it is also just to do what is not advantageous to the rulers or stronger—whenever those rulers unwittingly command what is harmful to themselves. Since it is just for the subjects to do what the rulers command, surely, my wisest Thrasymachus, the result is that justice is accomplishing the opposite of what you say: one must do what harms the stronger.” “Indeed, Socrates,” said Polemarchus, “that is very clear.” “Yes, if only someone here will bear witness for him,” Cleitophon interjected. “No witness is needed,” said Polemarchus, “for Thrasymachus himself has admitted that the rulers sometimes command things that are bad for themselves, and that it is just for the subjects to do whatever they are told. Thus from these admissions, it follows that it is just to do what is unprofitable for the stronger.” “But,” said Cleitophon, “he meant that what is just is what the ruler believes to be to his advantage. That is what the subordinate must do, and that, he said, is justice.” Polemarchus replied, “But that was not what he said.” “No matter,” I said. “If that is how Thrasymachus now wants to put it, let us accept that from him. And tell me, Thrasymachus: do you mean that justice is whatever the stronger believes to be to his advantage, whether it actually is so or not? Shall we say that is your view?”

“By no means,” he said. “Do you think I would call someone who errs stronger at the very moment he errs?” “I thought that was exactly what you were saying,” I answered, “when you agreed that rulers are not infallible but do sometimes make mistakes.” “You are a sly arguer, Socrates. Would you call a doctor who makes a mistake while treating the sick a doctor in that respect? Or a mathematician who errs in calculation a mathematician in that respect? We say in ordinary speech that the physician made a mistake and the mathematician made a mistake and so on, but according to strict usage—since you want to be exact—none of those who possess any art ever errs. They err only insofar as their art fails them, so that in that respect they are no longer acting as craftsmen. Hence, in the strict sense, no craftsman ever errs, and likewise no wise man or ruler errs at the moment when he is truly a ruler. Though we do ordinarily say ‘the physician erred’ and ‘the ruler erred,’ nonetheless in the most precise account, a craftsman or expert or ruler never errs at all when acting as such. Rather, anyone who errs is failing in the art to that extent. So a ruler, to the extent that he is a ruler, does not err, and thus he sets down what is best for himself—and this must be done by the one who is governed. Therefore, as I said from the start, I proclaim that justice is the advantage of the stronger.”

“Therefore,” Thrasymachus continued, “consider that I now give you such an answer. In the strictest sense, a ruler, insofar as he is truly a ruler, does not err. Being infallible, he sets down what is best for himself, and that is what the subject must do. Hence, as I said from the start: justice is doing what is in the interest of the stronger.”

“Well then, Thrasymachus,” I said, “do you think I am quibbling with you out of malice?”

“Quite so,” he answered.

“You think I posed my questions to ambush you with my arguments?”

“I know it well,” he said, “but you will gain nothing from it. You neither go undetected in your scheming, nor, even if noticed, could you force the argument to your will.”

“I would not even attempt it, my good fellow,” I said. “But please clarify something, so that this dispute will not arise again: clarify whether it is the ruler ‘in the usual sense’ or the ruler in the ‘precise sense,’ such as you have just described, whose advantage is the just thing for the weaker to do.”

“The one who is a ruler in the strict and precise sense,” he said. “Go on, scheme and quibble against that if you can—I won’t let you off, but you will not manage it.”

“Do you think me insane,” I said, “enough to attempt to shave a lion or to cheat Thrasymachus?”

“But you have just made the attempt,” he said, “though you are nothing at all.”

“Enough of that,” I said. “But answer me this: In the precise sense of a physician, such as you recently invoked—do you think he is a mere money-maker, or a healer of the sick? For speak of the true physician as he truly is.”

“He is a healer of the sick,” he replied.

“And a pilot in the strict sense—would you say he is the ruler of sailors, or is he himself a sailor?”

“He is the ruler of sailors,” Thrasymachus answered.

“I suppose you do not consider that fact (that he also sails in the ship) to be relevant or that we should call him a sailor, for it is not because he voyages that he is called a pilot, but on account of his expertise and rule over the sailors.”

“True,” he said.

“So each of these arts, I take it, aims at providing some benefit?”

“Certainly.”

“And is it not in the nature of each art,” I asked, “to seek and to supply what is advantageous to the object on which it is practiced?”

“Yes, that is its nature,” he said.

“Well then,” I asked, “for each of the arts, is there any advantage besides its own perfection—meaning that the art is done excellently?”

“What do you mean by that?” he replied.

“Like this,” I said: “If you ask me whether a body simply suffices by being a body, or whether it needs something else, I would answer that it absolutely needs something else; that is why medicine was discovered, because a body is in some flawed condition and cannot suffice for itself. So this art was prepared in order to provide what benefits the body. Does it seem right to you, if I put it like that, or not?”

“That seems right,” he said.

“Well then, is medicine itself flawed? Does it lack some virtue so that a further art is needed to supply it something beneficial—just as eyes need sight and ears need hearing, and we therefore require some art that observes and provides what is good for eyes and ears? Or is it the case that no such defect or error belongs to any art at all? Nor does any art require another art to look after its own interest, for no art makes a mistake, and it is not the role of one art to look for the advantage of another, but rather for that of the subject on which each art is practiced. And in its own realm, each art, when it is precisely correct, is wholly free of harm and error. Consider this from the exact perspective you have demanded: does it work like that or differently?”

“It appears to work that way,” he said.

“Therefore, medicine does not consider or prescribe what is beneficial to medicine itself, but rather what is beneficial to the body?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And horse-breeding does not look after what is advantageous to horse-breeding, but to horses? And none of the other arts looks after its own advantage—for indeed, it needs none—but the advantage of that which is subject to it.”

“It seems so,” he said.

“However, Thrasymachus, the arts surely rule and have authority over that subject to which they belong.”

At this point, he grudgingly agreed.

“Thus, no science or art enjoins what is to the advantage of the stronger, but always what is to the advantage of the weaker and governed by it.”

He finally acknowledged this, though he sought to contest it; and when he conceded, I continued: “So neither is any physician, insofar as he is a physician, attending to what benefits the physician, nor prescribing it, but rather what benefits the patient. For we have agreed that the precise physician is the ruler over bodies and not a mere wage-earner. Or did we not agree?”

“We did,” he replied.

“And likewise, the precise pilot is the ruler of sailors, not a mere sailor.”

“Yes, we agreed.”

“Then such a pilot in his role as pilot does not look after or prescribe what is beneficial to the pilot, but rather what is beneficial to the sailor and to those who are governed by him.”

Reluctantly, he concurred.

“So,” I said, “no one in any form of rule, so far as he is in fact a ruler, looks out for or enjoins his own advantage, but that of his subject—the one he practices his craft upon. Everything he says and does is spoken and done with a view to what is proper and beneficial for that subject.”

Now that we had arrived at this point in the argument, it was quite clear to everyone that the definition of justice was being turned inside out. Thrasymachus, instead of answering, said: “Tell me, Socrates, do you have a nurse?”

“A nurse!” I said. “Should you not rather give an answer than ask me such things?”

“Oh, I ask because she lets you snivel without wiping your nose, even though you obviously need it—since you do not even recognize sheep and shepherd or know who is truly a shepherd. You suppose shepherds or cattle-herders are taking care of the sheep or cattle, making them fat, with something other in mind than the interest of their owners and their own profit. Likewise, you think the rulers in cities—those who really rule—look upon their subjects in any way differently than one looks upon sheep, giving all their thought, day and night, to anything other than how to profit themselves. And you are so far from understanding what justice and injustice truly are, or from recognizing that justice is really the good of another—namely, the advantage of the stronger and the ruler—and that it is a personal harm to the one who obeys and serves. Meanwhile, injustice is the opposite: it lords it over those who are truly naïve and just, and the just serve the unjust for the unjust man’s benefit, making him happy while they themselves receive no advantage whatever. My dear naive Socrates, you must reflect that the just person always gets less than the unjust. First, in their dealings with each other, whenever the just man partners with an unjust man, you will find at the end of their partnership that the just man never has more than the unjust, but less. Then again, in their relations with the city, when there is a public levy, the just man pays more on an equal property basis, while the unjust man pays less; and when the city pays out, the just man gains nothing, while the unjust man makes off with much. Moreover, when they each hold public office, the just man, if no other punishment comes of it, sees his own affairs deteriorate from lack of attention, and derives no benefit from the public purse by virtue of his justice, and further, he earns the hatred of his household and acquaintances because he is unwilling to do them any favor contrary to justice. But the opposite is true for the unjust man. By this I mean one who is able to outdo others in a big way. If you really want to consider how much more profitable it is for the individual to be unjust than just, then examine the extreme example of injustice that confers the greatest happiness on its practitioner and the deepest misery on the people who suffer from it. That form is tyranny, which by outright force and stealth seizes the property of others, both sacred and profane, public and private, all at once, instead of doing it piecemeal. Where people commit such wrongdoing in small ways and are caught, they are severely punished and get the greatest disgrace—these petty criminals are temple robbers, kidnappers, burglars, robbers, or thieves. But when someone steals the entire wealth of the citizens, then instead of these shameful names, he is called happy and blessed, not only by the citizens themselves but by everyone else who hears that he has committed the whole range of injustice. For people criticize wrongdoing not from fear of doing it themselves, but from fear of suffering it. Thus, Socrates, injustice—if practiced on a grand enough scale—is mightier, freer, and more masterly than justice, and, as I said from the beginning, what is just is only what benefits the stronger, while injustice is what profits oneself and is to one’s own advantage.”

Having said that, Thrasymachus intended to leave, like a bath attendant who has poured a great bucket of water over our ears all at once. But those present would not let him go; they forced him to remain and defend his statements. For my part, I also strongly urged him: “My dear Thrasymachus, after launching such a theory, do you really intend to depart before we have examined thoroughly whether your view is correct or not? Or do you think this is a small matter on which you propose to draw a boundary line—the entire course of life, determining how each of us should live in order to gain the greatest benefit?”

“Do you imagine I or anyone else believe otherwise?” Thrasymachus responded.