THEAETETUS
by Plato
360 BC
trans. Benjamin Jowett
Euclid and Terpsion meet in front of Euclid's house in Megara.
They enter the house and the dialogue is read to them by a servant.
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Euclid. Have you only just arrived from the country, Terpsion?
Terpsion. No, I came some time ago: and I have been in the Agora
looking for you, and wondering that I could not find you.
Euc. But I was not in the city.
Terp. Where then?
Euc. As I was going down to the harbour, I met Theaetetus-he was
being carried up to Athens from the army at Corinth.
Terp. Was he alive or dead?
Euc. He was scarcely alive, for he has been badly wounded; but he
was suffering even more from the sickness which has broken out in
the army.
Terp. The dysentery, you mean?
Euc. Yes.
Terp. Alas! what a loss he will be!
Euc. Yes, Terpsion, he is a noble fellow; only to-day I heard some
people highly praising his behaviour in this very battle.
Terp. No wonder; I should rather be surprised at hearing anything
else of him. But why did he go on, instead of stopping at Megara?
Euc. He wanted to get home: although I entreated and advised him
to remain he would not listen to me; so I set him on his way, and
turned back, and then I remembered what Socrates had said of him,
and thought how remarkably this, like all his predictions, had been
fulfilled. I believe that he had seen him a little before his own
death, when Theaetetus was a youth, and he had a memorable
conversation with him, which he repeated to me when I came to
Athens; he was full of admiration of his genius, and said that he
would most certainly be a great man, if he lived.
Terp. The prophecy has certainly been fulfilled; but what was the
conversation? can you tell me?
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Euc. No, indeed, not offhand; but I took notes of it as soon as I
got home; these I filled up from memory, writing them out at
leisure; and whenever I went to Athens, I asked Socrates about any
point which I had forgotten, and on my return I made corrections; thus
I have nearly the whole conversation written down.
Terp. I remember-you told me; and I have always been intending to
ask you to show me the writing, but have put off doing so; and now,
why should we not read it through?-having just come from the
country, I should greatly like to rest.
Euc. I too shall be very glad of a rest, for I went with
Theaetetus as far as Erineum. Let us go in, then, and, while we are
reposing, the servant shall read to us.
Terp. Very good.
Euc. Here is the roll, Terpsion; I may observe that I have
introduced Socrates, not as narrating to me, but as actually
conversing with the persons whom he mentioned-these were, Theodorus
the geometrician (of Cyrene), and Theaetetus. I have omitted, for
the sake of convenience, the interlocutory words "I said," "I
remarked," which he used when he spoke of himself, and again, "he
agreed," or "disagreed," in the answer, lest the repetition of them
should be troublesome.
Terp. Quite right, Euclid.
Euc. And now, boy, you may take the roll and read.
Euclid's servant reads.
Socrates. If I cared enough about the Cyrenians, Theodorus, I
would ask you whether there are any rising geometricians or
philosophers in that part of the world. But I am more interested in
our own Athenian youth, and I would rather know who among them are
likely to do well. I observe them as far as I can myself, and I
enquire of any one whom they follow, and I see that a great many of
them follow you, in which they are quite right, considering your
eminence in geometry and in other ways. Tell me then, if you have
met with any one who is good for anything.
Theodorus. Yes, Socrates, I have become acquainted with one very
remarkable Athenian youth, whom I commend to you as well worthy of
your attention. If he had been a beauty I should have been afraid to
praise him, lest you should suppose that I was in love with him; but
he is no beauty, and you must not be offended if I say that he is very
like you; for he has a snub nose and projecting eyes, although these
features are less marked in him than in you. Seeing, then, that he has
no personal attractions, I may freely say, that in all my
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acquaintance, which is very large, I never knew anyone who was his
equal in natural gifts: for he has a quickness of apprehension which
is almost unrivalled, and he is exceedingly gentle, and also the
most courageous of men; there is a union of qualities in him such as I
have never seen in any other, and should scarcely have thought
possible; for those who, like him, have quick and ready and
retentive wits, have generally also quick tempers; they are ships
without ballast, and go darting about, and are mad rather than
courageous; and the steadier sort, when they have to face study, prove
stupid and cannot remember. Whereas he moves surely and smoothly and
successfully in the path of knowledge and enquiry; and he is full of
gentleness, flowing on silently like a river of oil; at his age, it is
wonderful.
Soc. That is good news; whose son is he?
Theod. The name of his father I have forgotten, but the youth
himself is the middle one of those who are approaching us; he and
his companions have been anointing themselves in the outer court,
and now they seem to have finished, and are towards us. Look and see
whether you know him.
Soc. I know the youth, but I do not know his name; he is the son
of Euphronius the Sunian, who was himself an eminent man, and such
another as his son is, according to your account of him; I believe
that he left a considerable fortune.
Theod. Theaetetus, Socrates, is his name; but I rather think that
the property disappeared in the hands of trustees; notwithstanding
which he is wonderfully liberal.
Soc. He must be a fine fellow; tell him to come and sit by me.
Theod. I will. Come hither, Theaetetus, and sit by Socrates.
Soc. By all means, Theaetetus, in order that I may see the
reflection of myself in your face, for Theodorus says that we are
alike; and yet if each of us held in his hands a lyre, and he said
that they were, tuned alike, should we at once take his word, or
should we ask whether he who said so was or was not a musician?
Theaetetus. We should ask.
Soc. And if we found that he was, we should take his word; and if
not, not?
Theaet. True.
Soc. And if this supposed, likeness of our faces is a matter of
any interest to us we should enquire whether he who says that we are
alike is a painter or not?
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Theaet. Certainly we should.
Soc. And is Theodorus a painter?
Theaet. I never heard that he was.
Soc. Is he a geometrician?
Theaet. Of course he is, Socrates.
Soc. And is he an astronomer and calculator and musician, and in
general an educated man?
Theaet. I think so.
Soc. If, then, he remarks on a similarity in our persons, either
by way of praise or blame, there is no particular reason why we should
attend to him.
Theaet. I should say not.
Soc. But if he praises the virtue or wisdom which are the mental
endowments of either of us, then he who hears the praises will
naturally desire to examine him who is praised: and he again should be
willing to exhibit himself.
Theaet. Very true, Socrates.
Soc. Then now is the time, my dear Theaetetus, for me to examine,
and for you to exhibit; since although Theodorus has praised many a
citizen and stranger in my hearing, never did I hear him praise any
one as he has been praising you.
Theaet. I am glad to hear it, Socrates; but what if he was only in
jest?
Soc. Nay, Theodorus is not given to jesting; and I cannot allow
you to retract your consent on any such pretence as that. If you do,
he will have to swear to his words; and we are perfectly sure that
no one will be found to impugn him. Do not be shy then, but stand to
your word.
Theaet. I suppose I must, if you wish it.
Soc. In the first place, I should like to ask what you learn of
Theodorus: something of geometry, perhaps?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. And astronomy and harmony and calculation?
Theaet. I do my best.
Soc. Yes, my boy, and so do I: and my desire is to learn of him,
or of anybody who seems to understand these things. And I get on
pretty well in general; but there is a little difficulty which I
want you and the company to aid me in investigating. Will you answer
me a question: "Is not learning growing wiser about that which you
learn?"
Theaet. Of course.
Soc. And by wisdom the wise are wise?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. And is that different in any way from knowledge?
Theaet. What?
Soc. Wisdom; are not men wise in that which they know?
Theaet. Certainly they are.
Soc. Then wisdom and knowledge are the same?
Theaet. Yes.
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Soc. Herein lies the difficulty which I can never solve to my
satisfaction-What is knowledge? Can we answer that question? What
say you? which of us will speak first? whoever misses shall sit
down, as at a game of ball, and shall be donkey, as the boys say; he
who lasts out his competitors in the game without missing, shall be
our king, and shall have the right of putting to us any questions
which he pleases. .. Why is there no reply? I hope, Theodorus, that
I am not betrayed into rudeness by my love of conversation? I only
want to make us talk and be friendly and sociable.
Theod. The reverse of rudeness, Socrates: but I would rather that
you would ask one of the young fellows; for the truth is, that I am
unused to your game of question and answer, and I am too old to learn;
the young will be more suitable, and they will improve more than I
shall, for youth is always able to improve. And so having made a
beginning with Theaetetus, I would advise you to go on with him and
not let him off.
Soc. Do you hear, Theaetetus, what Theodorus says? The
philosopher, whom you would not like to disobey, and whose word
ought to be a command to a young man, bids me interrogate you. Take
courage, then, and nobly say what you think that knowledge is.
Theaet. Well, Socrates, I will answer as you and he bid me; and if
make a mistake, you will doubtless correct me.
Soc. We will, if we can.
Theaet. Then, I think that the sciences which I learn from
Theodorus-geometry, and those which you just now mentioned-are
knowledge; and I would include the art of the cobbler and other
craftsmen; these, each and all of, them, are knowledge.
Soc. Too much, Theaetetus, too much; the nobility and liberality
of your nature make you give many and diverse things, when I am asking
for one simple thing.
Theaet. What do you mean, Socrates?
Soc. Perhaps nothing. I will endeavour, however, to explain what I
believe to be my meaning: When you speak of cobbling, you mean the art
or science of making shoes?
Theaet. Just so.
Soc. And when you speak of carpentering, you mean the art of
making wooden implements?
Theaet. I do.
Soc. In both cases you define the subject matter of each of the
two arts?
Theaet. True.
Soc. But that, Theaetetus, was not the point of my question: we
wanted to know not the subjects, nor yet the number of the arts or
sciences, for we were not going to count them, but we wanted to know
the nature of knowledge in the abstract. Am I not right?
Theaet. Perfectly right.
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Soc. Let me offer an illustration: Suppose that a person were to ask
about some very trivial and obvious thing-for example, What is clay?
and we were to reply, that there is a clay of potters, there is a clay
of oven-makers, there is a clay of brick-makers; would not the
answer be ridiculous?
Theaet. Truly.
Soc. In the first place, there would be an absurdity in assuming
that he who asked the question would understand from our answer the
nature of "clay," merely because we added "of the image-makers," or of
any other workers. How can a man understand the name of anything, when
he does not know the nature of it?
Theaet. He cannot.
Soc. Then he who does not know what science or knowledge is, has
no knowledge of the art or science of making shoes?
Theaet. None.
Soc. Nor of any other science?
Theaet. No.
Soc. And when a man is asked what science or knowledge is, to give
in answer the name of some art or science is ridiculous; for the
-question is, "What is knowledge?" and he replies, "A knowledge of
this or that."
Theaet. True.
Soc. Moreover, he might answer shortly and simply, but he makes an
enormous circuit. For example, when asked about the day, he might have
said simply, that clay is moistened earth-what sort of clay is not
to the point.
Theaet. Yes, Socrates, there is no difficulty as you put the
question. You mean, if I am not mistaken, something like what occurred
to me and to my friend here, your namesake Socrates, in a recent
discussion.
Soc. What was that, Theaetetus?
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Theaet. Theodorus was writing out for us something about roots, such
as the roots of three or five, showing that they are incommensurable
by the unit: he selected other examples up to seventeen-there he
stopped. Now as there are innumerable roots, the notion occurred to us
of attempting to include them all under one name or class.
Soc. And did you find such a class?
Theaet. I think that we did; but I should like to have your opinion.
Soc. Let me hear.
Theaet. We divided all numbers into two classes: those which are
made up of equal factors multiplying into one another, which we
compared to square figures and called square or equilateral
numbers;-that was one class.
Soc. Very good.
Theaet. The intermediate numbers, such as three and five, and
every other number which is made up of unequal factors, either of a
greater multiplied by a less, or of a less multiplied by a greater,
and when regarded as a figure, is contained in unequal sides;-all
these we compared to oblong figures, and called them oblong numbers.
Soc. Capital; and what followed?
Theaet. The lines, or sides, which have for their squares the
equilateral plane numbers, were called by us lengths or magnitudes;
and the lines which are the roots of (or whose squares are equal to)
the oblong numbers, were called powers or roots; the reason of this
latter name being, that they are commensurable with the former
[i.e., with the so-called lengths or magnitudes] not in linear
measurement, but in the value of the superficial content of their
squares; and the same about solids.
Soc. Excellent, my boys; I think that you fully justify the
praises of Theodorus, and that he will not be found guilty of false
witness.
Theaet. But I am unable, Socrates, to give you a similar answer
about knowledge, which is what you appear to want; and therefore
Theodorus is a deceiver after all.
Soc. Well, but if some one were to praise you for running, and to
say that he never met your equal among boys, and afterwards you were
beaten in a race by a grown-up man, who was a great runner-would the
praise be any the less true?
Theaet. Certainly not.
Soc. And is the discovery of the nature of knowledge so small a
matter, as just now said? Is it not one which would task the powers of
men perfect in every way?
Theaet. By heaven, they should be the top of all perfection!
Soc. Well, then, be of good cheer; do not say that Theodorus was
mistaken about you, but do your best to ascertain the true nature of
knowledge, as well as of other things.
Theaet. I am eager enough, Socrates, if that would bring to light
the truth.
Soc. Come, you made a good beginning just now; let your own answer
about roots be your model, and as you comprehended them all in one
class, try and bring the many sorts of knowledge under one definition.
Theaet. I can assure you, Socrates, that I have tried very often,
when the report of questions asked by you was brought to me; but I can
neither persuade myself that I have a satisfactory answer to give, nor
hear of any one who answers as you would have him; and I cannot
shake off a feeling of anxiety.
Soc. These are the pangs of labour, my dear Theaetetus; you have
something within you which you are bringing to the birth.
Theaet. I do not know, Socrates; I only say what I feel.
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Soc. And have you never heard, simpleton, that I am the son of a
midwife, brave and burly, whose name was Phaenarete?
Theaet. Yes, I have.
Soc. And that I myself practise midwifery?
Theaet. No, never.
Soc. Let me tell you that I do though, my friend: but you must not
reveal the secret, as the world in general have not found me out;
and therefore they only say of me, that I am the strangest of
mortals and drive men to their wits' end. Did you ever hear that too?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. Shall I tell you the reason?
Theaet. By all means.
Soc. Bear in mind the whole business of the mid-wives, and then
you will see my meaning better:-No woman, as you are probably aware,
who is still able to conceive and bear, attends other women, but
only those who are past bearing.
Theaet. Yes; I know.
Soc. The reason of this is said to be that Artemis-the goddess of
childbirth-is not a mother, and she honours those who are like
herself; but she could not allow the barren to be mid-wives, because
human nature cannot know the mystery of an art without experience; and
therefore she assigned this office to those who are too old to bear.
Theaet. I dare say.
Soc. And I dare say too, or rather I am absolutely certain, that the
mid-wives know better than others who is pregnant and who is not?
Theaet. Very true.
Soc. And by the use of potions and incantations they are able to
arouse the pangs and to soothe them at will; they can make those
bear who have a difficulty in bearing, and if they think fit they
can smother the embryo in the womb.
Theaet. They can.
Soc. Did you ever remark that they are also most cunning
matchmakers, and have a thorough knowledge of what unions are likely
to produce a brave brood?
Theaet. No, never.
Soc. Then let me tell you that this is their greatest pride, more
than cutting the umbilical cord. And if you reflect, you will see that
the same art which cultivates and gathers in the fruits of the
earth, will be most likely to know in what soils the several plants or
seeds should be deposited.
Theaet. Yes, the same art.
Soc. And do you suppose that with women the case is otherwise?
Theaet. I should think not.
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Soc. Certainly not; but mid-wives are respectable women who have a
character to lose, and they avoid this department of their profession,
because they are afraid of being called procuresses, which is a name
given to those who join together man and woman in an unlawful and
unscientific way; and yet the true midwife is also the true and only
matchmaker.
Theaet. Clearly.
Soc. Such are the mid-wives, whose task is a very important one
but not so important as mine; for women do not bring into the world at
one time real children, and at another time counterfeits which are
with difficulty distinguished from them; if they did, then the,
discernment of the true and false birth would be the crowning
achievement of the art of midwifery-you would think so?
Theaet. Indeed I should.
Soc. Well, my art of midwifery is in most respects like theirs;
but differs, in that I attend men and not women; and look after
their souls when they are in labour, and not after their bodies: and
the triumph of my art is in thoroughly examining whether the thought
which the mind of the young man brings forth is a false idol or a
noble and true birth. And like the mid-wives, I am barren, and the
reproach which is often made against me, that I ask questions of
others and have not the wit to answer them myself, is very just-the
reason is, that the god compels-me to be a midwife, but does not allow
me to bring forth. And therefore I am not myself at all wise, nor have
I anything to show which is the invention or birth of my own soul, but
those who converse with me profit. Some of them appear dull enough
at first, but afterwards, as our acquaintance ripens, if the god is
gracious to them, they all make astonishing progress; and this in
the opinion of others as well as in their own. It is quite dear that
they never learned anything from me; the many fine discoveries to
which they cling are of their own making. But to me and the god they
owe their delivery. And the proof of my words is, that many of them in
their ignorance, either in their self-conceit despising me, or falling
under the influence of others, have gone away too soon; and have not
only lost the children of whom I had previously delivered them by an
ill bringing up, but have stifled whatever else they had in them by
evil communications, being fonder of lies and shams than of the truth;
and they have at last ended by seeing themselves, as others see
them, to be great fools. Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus, is one
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of them, and there are many others. The truants often return to me,
and beg that I would consort with them again-they are ready to go to
me on their knees and then, if my familiar allows, which is not always
the case, I receive them, and they begin to grow again. Dire are the
pangs which my art is able to arouse and to allay in those who consort
with me, just like the pangs of women in childbirth; night and day
they are full of perplexity and travail which is even worse than
that of the women. So much for them. And there are -others,
Theaetetus, who come to me apparently having nothing in them; and as I
know that they have no need of my art, I coax them into marrying
some one, and by the grace of God I can generally tell who is likely
to do them good. Many of them I have given away to Prodicus, and
many to other inspired sages. I tell you this long story, friend
Theaetetus, because I suspect, as indeed you seem to think yourself,
that you are in labour-great with some conception. Come then to me,
who am a midwife's son and myself a midwife, and do your best to
answer the questions which I will ask you. And if I abstract and
expose your first-born, because I discover upon inspection that the
conception which you have formed is a vain shadow, do not quarrel with
me on that account, as the manner of women is when their first
children are taken from them. For I have actually known some who
were ready to bite me when I deprived them of a darling folly; they
did not perceive that I acted from good will, not knowing that no
god is the enemy of man-that was not within the range of their
ideas; neither am I their enemy in all this, but it would be wrong for
me to admit falsehood, or to stifle the truth. Once more, then,
Theaetetus, I repeat my old question, "What is knowledge?"-and do
not say that you cannot tell; but quit yourself like a man, and by the
help of God you will be able to tell.
Theaet. At any rate, Socrates, after such an exhortation I should be
ashamed of not trying to do my best. Now he who knows perceives what
he knows, and, as far as I can see at present, knowledge is
perception.
Soc. Bravely said, boy; that is the way in which you should
express your opinion. And now, let us examine together this conception
of yours, and see whether it is a true birth or a mere,
wind-egg:-You say that knowledge is perception?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. Well, you have delivered yourself of a very important
doctrine about knowledge; it is indeed the opinion of Protagoras,
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who has another way of expressing it, Man, he says, is the measure
of all things, of the existence of things that are, and of the
non-existence of things that are not:-You have read him?
Theaet. O yes, again and again.
Soc. Does he not say that things are to you such as they appear to
you, and to me such as they appear to me, and that you and I are men?
Theaet. Yes, he says so.
Soc. A wise man is not likely to talk nonsense. Let us try to
understand him: the same wind is blowing, and yet one of us may be
cold and the other not, or one may be slightly and the other very
cold?
Theaet. Quite true.
Soc. Now is the wind, regarded not in relation to us but absolutely,
cold or not; or are we to say, with Protagoras, that the wind is
cold to him who is cold, and not to him who is not?
Theaet. I suppose the last.
Soc. Then it must appear so to each of them?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. And "appears to him" means the same as "he perceives."
Theaet. True.
Soc. Then appearing and perceiving coincide in the case of hot and
cold, and in similar instances; for things appear, or may be
supposed to be, to each one such as he perceives them?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. Then perception is always of existence, and being the same as
knowledge is unerring?
Theaet. Clearly.
Soc. In the name of the Graces, what an almighty wise man Protagoras
must have been! He spoke these things in a parable to the common herd,
like you and me, but told the truth, his Truth, in secret to his own
disciples.
Theaet. What do you mean, Socrates?
Soc. I am about to speak of a high argument, in which all things are
said to be relative; you cannot rightly call anything by any name,
such as great or small, heavy or light, for the great will be small
and the heavy light-there is no single thing or quality, but out of
motion and change and admixture all things are becoming relatively
to one another, which "becoming" is by us incorrectly called being,
but is really becoming, for nothing ever is, but all things are
becoming. Summon all philosophers-Protagoras, Heracleitus, Empedocles,
and the rest of them, one after another, and with the exception of
Parmenides they will agree with you in this. Summon the great
masters of either kind of poetry-Epicharmus, the prince of Comedy, and
Homer of Tragedy; when the latter sings of
Ocean whence sprang the gods, and mother Tethys,
does he not mean that all things are the offspring, of flux and
motion?
Theaet. I think so.
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Soc. And who could take up arms against such a great army having
Homer for its general, and not appear ridiculous?
Theaet. Who indeed, Socrates?
Soc. Yes, Theaetetus; and there are plenty of other proofs which
will show that motion is the source of what is called being and
becoming, and inactivity of not-being and destruction; for fire and
warmth, which are supposed to be the parent and guardian of all
other things, are born of movement and friction, which is a kind of
motion;-is not this the origin of fire?
Theaet. It is.
Soc. And the race of animals is generated in the same way?
Theaet. Certainly.
Soc. And is not the bodily habit spoiled by rest and idleness, but
preserved for a long time by motion and exercise?
Theaet. True.
Soc. And what of the mental habit? Is not the soul informed, and
improved, and preserved by study and attention, which are motions; but
when at rest, which in the soul only means want of attention and
study, is uninformed, and speedily forgets whatever she has learned?
Theaet. True.
Soc. Then motion is a good, and rest an evil, to the soul as well as
to the body?
Theaet. Clearly.
Soc. I may add, that breathless calm, stillness and the like waste
and impair, while wind and storm preserve; and the palmary argument of
all, which I strongly urge, is the golden chain in Homer, by which
he means the sun, thereby indicating that so long as the sun and the
heavens go round in their orbits, all things human and divine are
and are preserved, but if they were chained up and their motions
ceased, then all things would be destroyed, and, as the saying is,
turned upside down.
Theaet. I believe, Socrates, that you have truly explained his
meaning.
Soc. Then now apply his doctrine to perception, my good friend,
and first of all to vision; that which you call white colour is not in
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your eyes, and is not a distinct thing which exists out of them. And
you must not assign any place to it: for if it had position it would
be, and be at rest, and there would be no process of becoming.
Theaet. Then what is colour?
Soc. Let us carry the principle which has just been affirmed, that
nothing is self-existent, and then we shall see that white, black, and
every other colour, arises out of the eye meeting the appropriate
motion, and that what we call a colour is in each case neither the
active nor the passive element, but something which passes between
them, and is peculiar to each percipient; are you quite certain that
the several colours appear to a dog or to any animal whatever as
they appear to you?
Theaet. Far from it.
Soc. Or that anything appears the same to you as to another man? Are
you so profoundly convinced of this? Rather would it not be true
that it never appears exactly the same to you, because you are never
exactly the same?
Theaet. The latter.
Soc. And if that with which I compare myself in size, or which I
apprehend by touch, were great or white or hot, it could not become
different by mere contact with another unless it actually changed; nor
again, if the comparing or apprehending subject were great or white or
hot, could this, when unchanged from within become changed by any
approximation or affection of any other thing. The fact is that in our
ordinary way of speaking we allow ourselves to be driven into most
ridiculous and wonderful contradictions, as Protagoras and all who
take his line of argument would remark.
Theaet. How? and of what sort do you mean?
Soc. A little instance will sufficiently explain my meaning: Here
are six dice, which are more by a half when compared with four, and
fewer by a half than twelve-they are more and also fewer. How can
you or any one maintain the contrary?
Theaet. Very true.
Soc. Well, then, suppose that Protagoras or some one asks whether
anything can become greater or more if not by increasing, how would
you answer him, Theaetetus?
Theaet. I should say "No," Socrates, if I were to speak my mind in
reference to this last question, and if I were not afraid of
contradicting my former answer.
Soc. Capital excellent! spoken like an oracle, my boy! And if you
reply "Yes," there will be a case for Euripides; for our tongue will
be unconvinced, but not our mind.
Theaet. Very true.
Soc. The thoroughbred Sophists, who know all that can be known about
the mind, and argue only out of the superfluity of their wits, would
have had a regular sparring-match over this, and would -have knocked
their arguments together finely. But you and I, who have no
professional aims, only desire to see what is the mutual relation of
these principles-whether they are consistent with each or not.
Theaet. Yes, that would be my desire.
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Soc. And mine too. But since this is our feeling, and there is
plenty of time, why should we not calmly and patiently review our
own thoughts, and thoroughly examine and see what these appearances in
us really are? If I am not mistaken, they will be described by us as
follows:-first, that nothing can become greater or less, either in
number or magnitude, while remaining equal to itself-you would agree?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. Secondly, that without addition or subtraction there is no
increase or diminution of anything, but only equality.
Theaet. Quite true.
Soc. Thirdly, that what was not before cannot be afterwards, without
becoming and having become.
Theaet. Yes, truly.
Soc. These three axioms, if I am not mistaken, are fighting with one
another in our minds in the case of the dice, or, again, in such a
case as this-if I were to say that I, who am of a certain height and
taller than you, may within a year, without gaining or losing in
height, be not so tall-not that I should have lost, but that you would
have increased. In such a case, I am afterwards what I once was not,
and yet I have not become; for I could not have become without
becoming, neither could I have become less without losing somewhat
of my height; and I could give you ten thousand examples of similar
contradictions, if we admit them at all. I believe that you follow me,
Theaetetus; for I suspect that you have thought of these questions
before now.
Theaet. Yes, Socrates, and I am amazed when I think of them; by
the Gods I am! and I want to know what on earth they mean; and there
are times when my head quite swims with the contemplation of them.
Soc. I see, my dear Theaetetus, that Theodorus had a true insight
into your nature when he said that you were a philosopher, for
wonder is the feeling of a philosopher, and philosophy begins in
wonder. He was not a bad genealogist who said that Iris (the messenger
of heaven) is the child of Thaumas (wonder). But do you begin to see
what is the explanation of this perplexity on the hypothesis which
we attribute to Protagoras?
Theaet. Not as yet.
Soc. Then you will be obliged to me if I help you to unearth the
hidden "truth" of a famous man or school.
Theaet. To be sure, I shall be very much obliged.
Soc. Take a look round, then, and see that none of the uninitiated
are listening. Now by the uninitiated I mean: the people who believe
in nothing but what they can grasp in their hands, and who will not
allow that action or generation or anything invisible can have real
existence.
Theaet. Yes, indeed, Socrates, they are very hard and impenetrable
mortals.
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Soc. Yes, my boy, outer barbarians. Far more ingenious are the
brethren whose mysteries I am about to reveal to you. Their first
principle is, that all is motion, and upon this all the affections
of which we were just now speaking, are supposed to depend: there is
nothing but motion, which has two forms, one active and the other
passive, both in endless number; and out of the union and friction
of them there is generated a progeny endless in number, having two
forms, sense and the object of sense, which are ever breaking forth
and coming to the birth at the same moment. The senses are variously
named hearing, seeing, smelling; there is the sense of heat, cold,
pleasure, pain, desire, fear, and many more which have names, as
well as innumerable others which are without them; each has its
kindred object each variety of colour has a corresponding variety of
sight, and so with sound and hearing, and with the rest of the
senses and the objects akin to them. Do you see, Theaetetus, the
bearings of this tale on the preceding argument?
Theaet. Indeed I do not.
Soc. Then attend, and I will try to finish the story. The purport is
that all these things are in motion, as I was saying, and that this
motion is of two kinds, a slower and a quicker; and the slower
elements have their motions in the same place and with reference to
things near them, and so they beget; but what is begotten is
swifter, for it is carried to fro, and moves from place to place.
Apply this to sense:-When the eye and the appropriate object meet
together and give birth to whiteness and the sensation connatural with
it, which could not have been given by either of them going elsewhere,
then, while the sight: is flowing from the eye, whiteness proceeds
from the object which combines in producing the colour; and so the eye
is fulfilled with sight, and really sees, and becomes, not sight,
but a seeing eye; and the object which combined to form the colour
is fulfilled with whiteness, and becomes not whiteness but a white
thing, whether wood or stone or whatever the object may be which
happens to be colour,ed white. And this is true of all sensible
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objects, hard, warm, and the like, which are similarly to be regarded,
as I was saying before, not as having any absolute existence, but as
being all of them of whatever kind. generated by motion in their
intercourse with one another; for of the agent and patient, as
existing in separation, no trustworthy conception, as they say, can be
formed, for the agent has no existence until united; with the patient,
and the patient has no existence until united with the agent; and that
which by uniting with something becomes an agent, by meeting with some
other thing is converted into a patient. And from all these
considerations, as I said at first, there arises a general reflection,
that there is no one self-existent thing, but everything is becoming
and in relation; and being must be altogether abolished, although from
habit and ignorance we are compelled even in this discussion to retain
the use of the term. But great philosophers tell us that we are not to
allow either the word "something," or "belonging to something," or "to
me," or "this," or "that," or any other detaining name to be used,
in the language of nature all things are being created and
destroyed, coming into being and passing into new forms; nor can any
name fix or detain them; he who attempts to fix them is easily
refuted. And this should be the way of speaking, not only of
particulars but of aggregates such aggregates as are expressed in
the word "man," or "stone," or any name of animal or of a class. O
Theaetetus, are not these speculations sweet as honey? And do you
not like the taste of them in the mouth?
Theaet. I do not know what to say, Socrates, for, indeed, I cannot
make out whether you are giving your own opinion or only wanting to
draw me out.
Soc. You forget, my friend, that I neither know, nor profess to
know, anything of! these matters; you are the person who is in labour,
I am the barren midwife; and this is why I soothe you, and offer you
one good thing after another, that you may taste them. And I hope that
I may at last help to bring your own opinion into the light of day:
when this has been accomplished, then we will determine whether what
you have brought forth is only a wind-egg or a real and genuine birth.
Therefore, keep up your spirits, and answer like a man what you think.
Theaet. Ask me.
Soc. Then once more: Is it your opinion that nothing is but what
becomes? the good and the noble, as well; as all the other things
which we were just now mentioning?
Theaet. When I hear you discoursing in this style, I think that
there is a great deal in what you say, and I am very ready to
assent. Soc. Let us not leave the argument unfinished, then; for there
still remains to be considered an objection which may be raised
about dreams and diseases, in particular about madness, and the
various illusions of hearing and sight, or of other senses. For you
know that in all these cases the esse-percipi theory appears to be
unmistakably refuted, since in dreams and illusions we certainly
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have false perceptions; and far from saying that everything is which
appears, we should rather say that nothing is which appears.
Theaet. Very true, Socrates.
Soc. But then, my boy, how can any one contend that knowledge is
perception, or that to every man what appears is?
Theaet. I am afraid to say, Socrates, that I have nothing to answer,
because you rebuked me just now for making this excuse; but I
certainly cannot undertake to argue that madmen or dreamers think
truly, when they imagine, some of them that they are gods, and
others that they can fly, and are flying in their sleep.
Soc. Do you see another question which can be raised about these
phenomena, notably about dreaming and waking?
Theaet. What question?
Soc. A question which I think that you must often have heard persons
ask:-How can you determine whether at this moment we are sleeping, and
all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking
to one another in the waking state?
Theaet. Indeed, Socrates, I do not know how to prove the one any
more than the other, for in both cases the facts precisely
correspond;-and there is no difficulty in supposing that during all
this discussion we have been talking to one another in a dream; and
when in a dream we seem to be narrating dreams, the resemblance of the
two states is quite astonishing.
Soc. You see, then, that a doubt about the reality of sense is
easily raised, since there may even be a doubt whether we are awake or
in a dream. And as our time is equally divided between sleeping and
waking, in either sphere of existence the soul contends that the
thoughts which are present to our minds at the time are true; and
during one half of our lives we affirm the truth of the one, and,
during the other half, of the other; and are equally confident of
both.
Theaet. Most true.
Soc. And may not the same be said of madness and other disorders?
the difference is only that the times are not equal.
Theaet. Certainly.
Soc. And is truth or falsehood to be determined by duration of time?
Theaet. That would be in many ways ridiculous.
Soc. But can you certainly determine: by any other means which of
these opinions is true?
Theaet. I do not think that I can.
Soc. Listen, then to a statement of the other side of the
argument, which is made by the champions of appearance. They would
say, as I imagine-can that which is wholly other than something,
have the same quality as that from which it differs? and observe,
-Theaetetus, that the word "other" means not "partially," but
"wholly other."
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Theaet. Certainly, putting the question as you do, that which is
wholly other cannot either potentially or in any other way be the
same.
Soc. And must therefore be admitted to be unlike?
Theaet. True.
Soc. If, then, anything happens to become like or unlike itself or
another, when it becomes like we call it the same-when unlike, other?
Theaet. Certainly.
Soc. Were we not saying that there. are agents many and infinite,
and patients many and infinite?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. And also that different combinations will produce results which
are not the same, but different?
Theaet. Certainly.
Soc. Let us take you and me, or anything as an example:-There is
Socrates in health, and Socrates sick-Are they like or unlike?
Theaet. You mean to, compare Socrates in health as a whole, and
Socrates in sickness as a whole?
Soc. Exactly; that is my meaning.
Theaet. I answer, they are unlike.
Soc. And if unlike, they are other?
Theaet. Certainly.
Soc. And would you not say the same of Socrates sleeping and waking,
or in any of the states which we were mentioning?
Theaet. I should.
Soc. All agents have a different patient in Socrates, accordingly as
he is well or ill.
Theaet. Of course.
Soc. And I who am the patient, and that which is the agent, will
produce something different in each of the two cases?
Theaet. Certainly.
Soc. The wine which I drink when I am in health, appears sweet and
pleasant to me?
Theaet. True.
Soc. For, as has been already acknowledged, the patient and agent
meet together and produce sweetness and a perception of sweetness,
which are in simultaneous motion, and the perception which comes
from the patient makes the tongue percipient, and the quality of
sweetness which arises out of and is moving about the wine, makes
the wine, both to be and to appear sweet to the healthy tongue.
Theaet. Certainly; that has been already acknowledged.
Soc. But when I am sick, the wine really acts upon another and a
different person?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. The combination of the draught of wine, and the Socrates who is
sick, produces quite another result; which is the sensation of
bitterness in the tongue, and the, motion and creation of bitterness
in and about the wine, which becomes not bitterness but something
bitter; as I myself become not but percipient?
Theaet. True.
Soc. There is no, other object of which I shall ever have the same
perception, for another object would give another perception, and
would make the perception other and different; nor can that object
which affects me, meeting another, subject, produce, the same, or
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become similar, for that too would produce another result from another
subject, and become different.
Theaet. True.
Soc. Neither can by myself, have this sensation, nor the object by
itself, this quality.
Theaet. Certainly not.
Soc. When I perceive I must become percipient of something-there can
be no such thing as perceiving and perceiving nothing; the object,
whether it become sweet, bitter, or of any other quality, must have
relation to a percipient; nothing can become sweet which is sweet to
no one.
Theaet. Certainly not.
Soc. Then the inference is, that we [the agent and patient] are or
become in relation to one another; there is a law which binds us one
to the other, but not to any other existence, nor each of us to
himself; and therefore we can only be bound to one another; so that
whether a person says that a thing is or becomes, he must say that
it is or becomes to or of or in relation to something else; but he
must not say or allow any one else to say that anything is or
becomes absolutely: -such is our conclusion.
Theaet. Very true, Socrates.
Soc. Then, if that which acts upon me has relation to me and to no
other, I and no other am the percipient of it?
Theaet. Of course.
Soc. Then my perception is true to me, being inseparable from my own
being; and, as Protagoras says, to myself I am judge of what is
and-what is not to me.
Theaet. I suppose so.
Soc. How then, if I never err, and if my mind never trips in the
conception of being or becoming, can I fail of knowing that which I
perceive?
Theaet. You cannot.
Soc. Then you were quite right in affirming that knowledge is only
perception; and the meaning turns out to be the same, whether with
Homer and Heracleitus, and all that company, you say that all is
motion and flux, or with the great sage Protagoras, that man is the
measure of all things; or with Theaetetus, that, given these premises,
perception is knowledge. Am I not right, Theaetetus, and is not this
your newborn child, of which I have delivered you? What say you?
Theaet. I cannot but agree, Socrates.
Soc. Then this is the child, however he may turn out, which you
and I have with difficulty brought into the world. And now that he
is born, we must run round the hearth with him, and see whether he
is worth rearing, or is only a wind-egg and a sham. Is he to be reared
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in any case, and not exposed? or will you bear to see him rejected,
and not get into a passion if I take away your first-born?
Theod. Theaetetus will not be angry, for he is very good-natured.
But tell me, Socrates, in heaven's name, is this, after all, not the
truth?
Soc. You, Theodorus, are a lover of theories, and now you innocently
fancy that I am a bag full of them, and can easily pull one out
which will overthrow its predecessor. But you do not see that in
reality none of these theories come from me; they all come from him
who talks with me. I only know just enough to extract them from the
wisdom of another, and to receive them in a spirit of fairness. And
now I shall say nothing myself, but shall endeavour to elicit
something from our young friend.
Theod. Do as you say, Socrates; you are quite right.
Soc. Shall I tell you, Theodorus, what amazes me in your
acquaintance Protagoras?
Theod. What is it?
Soc. I am charmed with his doctrine, that what appears is to each
one, but I wonder that he did not begin his book on Truth with a
declaration that a pig or a dog-faced baboon, or some other yet
stranger monster which has sensation, is the measure of all things;
then he might have shown a magnificent contempt for our opinion of him
by informing us at the outset that while we were reverencing him
like a God for his wisdom he was no better than a tadpole, not to
speak of his fellow-men-would not this have produced an
over-powering effect? For if truth is only sensation, and no man can
discern another's feelings better than he, or has any superior right
to determine whether his opinion is true or false, but each, as we
have several times repeated, is to himself the sole judge, and
everything that he judges is true and right, why, my friend, should
Protagoras be preferred to the place of wisdom and instruction, and
deserve to be well paid, and we poor ignoramuses have to go to him, if
each one is the measure of his own wisdom? Must he not be talking ad
captandum in all this? I say nothing of the ridiculous predicament
in which my own midwifery and the whole art of dialectic is placed;
for the attempt to supervise or refute the notions or opinions of
others would be a tedious and enormous piece of folly, if to each
man his own are right; and this must be the case if Protagoras Truth
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is the real truth, and the philosopher is not merely amusing himself
by giving oracles out of the shrine of his book.
Theod. He was a friend of mine, Socrates, as you were saying, and
therefore I cannot have him refuted by my lips, nor can I oppose you
when I agree with you; please, then, to take Theaetetus again; he
seemed to answer very nicely.
Soc. If you were to go into a Lacedaemonian palestra, Theodorus,
would you have a right to look on at the naked wrestlers, some of them
making a poor figure, if you did not strip and give them an
opportunity of judging of your own person?
Theod. Why not, Socrates, if they would allow me, as I think you
will in consideration of my age and stiffness; let some more supple
youth try a fall with you, and do not drag me into the gymnasium.
Soc. Your will is my will, Theodorus, as the proverbial philosophers
say, and therefore I will return to the sage Theaetetus: Tell me,
Theaetetus, in reference to what I was saying, are you not lost in
wonder, like myself, when you find that all of a sudden you are raised
to the level of the wisest of men, or indeed of the gods?-for you
would assume the measure of Protagoras to apply to the gods as well as
men?
Theaet. Certainly I should, and I confess to you that I am lost in
wonder. At first hearing, I was quite satisfied with the doctrine,
that whatever appears is to each one, but now the face of things has
changed.
Soc. Why, my dear boy, you are young, and therefore your ear is
quickly caught and your mind influenced by popular arguments.
Protagoras, or some one speaking on his behalf, will doubtless say
in reply, good people, young and old, you meet and harangue, and bring
in the gods, whose existence of non-existence I banish from writing
and speech, or you talk about the reason of man being degraded to
the level of the brutes, which is a telling argument with the
multitude, but not one word of proof or demonstration do you offer.
All is probability with you, and yet surely you and Theodorus had
better reflect whether you are disposed to admit of probability and
figures of speech in matters of such importance. He or any other
mathematician who argued from probabilities and likelihoods in
geometry, would not be worth an ace.
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Theaet. But neither you nor we, Socrates, would be satisfied with
such arguments.
Soc. Then you and Theodorus mean to say that we must look at the
matter in some other way?
Theaet. Yes, in quite another way.
Soc. And the way will be to ask whether perception is or is not
the same as knowledge; for this was the real point of our argument,
and with a view to this we raised (did we not?) those many strange
questions.
Theaet. Certainly.
Soc. Shall we say that we know every thing which we see and hear?
for example, shall we say that not having learned, we do not hear
the language of foreigners when they speak to us? or shall we say that
we not only hear, but know what they are saying? Or again, if we see
letters which we do not understand, shall we say that we do not see
them? or shall we aver that, seeing them, we must know them?
Theaet. We shall say, Socrates, that we know what we actually see
and hear of them-that is to say, we see and know the figure and colour
of the letters, and we hear and know the elevation or depression of
the sound of them; but we do not perceive by sight and hearing, or
know, that which grammarians and interpreters teach about them.
Soc. Capital, Theaetetus; and about this there shall be no
dispute, because I want you to grow; but there is another difficulty
coming, which you will also have to repulse.
Theaet. What is it?
Soc. Some one will say, Can a man who has ever known anything, and
still has and preserves a memory of that which he knows, not know that
which he remembers at the time when he remembers? I have, I fear, a
tedious way of putting a simple question, which is only, whether a man
who has learned, and remembers, can fail to know?
Theaet. Impossible, Socrates; the supposition is monstrous.
Soc. Am I talking nonsense, then? Think: is not seeing perceiving,
and is not sight perception?
Theaet. True.
Soc. And if our recent definition holds, every man knows that
which he has seen?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. And you would admit that there is such a thing as memory?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. And is memory of something or of nothing?
Theaet. Of something, surely.
Soc. Of things learned and perceived, that is?
Theaet. Certainly.
Soc. Often a man remembers that which he has seen?
Theaet. True.
Soc. And if he closed his eyes, would he forget?
Theaet. Who, Socrates, would dare to say so?
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Soc. But we must say so, if the previous argument is to be
maintained.
Theaet. What do you mean? I am not quite sure that I understand you,
though I have a strong suspicion that you are right.
Soc. As thus: he who sees knows, as we say, that which he sees;
for perception and sight and knowledge are admitted to be the same.
Theaet. Certainly.
Soc. But he who saw, and has knowledge of that which he saw,
remembers, when he closes his eyes, that which he no longer sees.
Theaet. True.
Soc. And seeing is knowing, and therefore not-seeing is not-knowing?
Theaet. Very true.
Soc. Then the inference is, that a man may have attained the
knowledge, of something, which he may remember and yet not know,
because he does not see; and this has been affirmed by us to be a
monstrous supposition.
Theaet. Most true.
Soc. Thus, then, the assertion that knowledge and perception are
one, involves a manifest impossibility?
Theaet. Yes.
Soc. Then they must be distinguished?
Theaet. I suppose that they must.
Soc. Once more we shall have to begin, and ask "What is
knowledge?" and yet, Theaetetus, what are we going to do?
Theaet. About what?
Soc. Like a good-for-nothing cock, without having won the victory,
we walk away from the argument and crow.
Theaet. How do you mean?
Soc. After the manner of disputers, we were satisfied with mere
verbal consistency, and were well pleased if in this way we could gain
an advantage. Although professing not to be mere Eristics, but
philosophers, I suspect that we have unconsciously fallen into the
error of that ingenious class of persons.
Theaet. I do not as yet understand you.
Soc. Then I will try to explain myself: just now we asked the
question, whether a man who had learned and remembered could fail to
know, and we showed that a person who had seen might remember when
he had his eyes shut and could not see, and then he would at the
same time remember and not know. But this was an impossibility. And so
the Protagorean fable came to nought, and yours also, who maintained
that knowledge is the same as perception.
Theaet. True.
Soc. And yet, my friend, I rather suspect that the result would have
been different if Protagoras, who was the father of the first of the
two-brats, had been alive; he would have had a great deal to say on
their behalf. But he is dead, and we insult over his orphan child; and
even the guardians whom he left, and of whom our friend Theodorus is
one, are unwilling to give any help, and therefore I suppose that must
take up his cause myself, and see justice done?
Theod. Not I, Socrates, but rather Callias, the son of Hipponicus,
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is guardian of his orphans. I was too soon diverted from the
abstractions of dialectic to geometry. Nevertheless, I shall be
grateful to you if you assist him.
Soc. Very good, Theodorus; you shall see how I will come to the
rescue. If a person does not attend to the meaning of terms as they
are commonly used in argument, he may be involved even in greater
paradoxes than these. Shall I explain this matter to you or to
Theaetetus?
Theod. To both of us, and let the younger answer; he will incur less
disgrace if he is discomfited.
Soc. Then now let me ask the awful question, which is this:-Can a
man know and also not know that which he knows?
Theod. How shall we answer, Theaetetus?
Theaet. He cannot, I should say.
Soc. He can, if you maintain that seeing is knowing. When you are
imprisoned in a well, as the saying is, and the self-assured adversary
closes one of your eyes with his hand, and asks whether you can see
his cloak with the eye which he has closed, how will you answer the
inevitable man?
Theaet. I should answer, "Not with that eye but with the other."
Soc. Then you see and do not see the same thing at the same time.
Theaet. Yes, in a certain sense.
Soc. None of that, he will reply; I do not ask or bid you answer
in what sense you know, but only whether you know that which you do
not know. You have been proved to see that which you do not see; and
you have already admitted that seeing is knowing, and that
not-seeing is not-knowing: I leave you to draw the inference.
Theaet. Yes, the inference is the contradictory of my assertion.
Soc. Yes, my marvel, and there might have been yet worse things in
store for you, if an opponent had gone on to ask whether you can
have a sharp and also a dull knowledge, and whether you can know near,
but not at a distance, or know the same thing with more or less
intensity, and so on without end. Such questions might have been put
to you by a light-armed mercenary, who argued for pay. He would have
lain in wait for you, and when you took up the position, that sense is
knowledge, he would have made an assault upon hearing, smelling, and
the other senses;-he would have shown you no mercy; and while you were
lost in envy and admiration of his wisdom, he would have got you
into his net, out of which you would not have escaped until you had
come to an understanding about the sum to be paid for your release.
Well, you ask, and how will Protagoras reinforce his position? Shall I
answer for him?
Theaet. By all means.
Soc. He will repeat all those things which we have been urging on
his behalf, and then he will close with us in disdain, and say:-The
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worthy Socrates asked a little boy, whether the same man could
remember and not know the same thing, and the boy said No, because
he was frightened, and could not see what was coming, and then
Socrates made fun of poor me. The truth is, O slatternly Socrates,
that when you ask questions about any assertion of mine, and the
person asked is found tripping, if he has answered as I should have
answered, then I am refuted, but if he answers something else, then he
is refuted and not I. For do you really suppose that any one would
admit the memory which a man has of an impression which has passed
away to be the same with that which he experienced at the time?
Assuredly not. Or would he hesitate to acknowledge that the same man
may know and not know the same thing? Or, if he is afraid of making
this admission, would he ever grant that one who has become unlike
is the same as before he became unlike? Or would he admit that a man
is one at all, and not rather many and infinite as the changes which
take place in him? I speak by the card in order to avoid entanglements
of words. But, O my good sir, he would say, come to the argument in
a more generous spirit; and either show, if you can, that our
sensations are not relative and individual, or, if you admit them to
be so, prove that this does not involve the consequence that the
appearance becomes, or, if you will have the word, is, to the
individual only. As to your talk about pigs and baboons, you are
yourself behaving like a pig, and you teach your hearers to make sport
of my writings in the same ignorant manner; but this is not to your
credit. For I declare that the truth is as I have written, and that
each of us is a measure of existence and of non-existence. Yet one man
may be a thousand times better than another in proportion as different
things are and appear to him.
And I am far from saying that wisdom and the wise man have no
existence; but I say that the wise man is he who makes the evils which
appear and are to a man, into goods which are and appear to him. And I
would beg you not to my words in the letter, but to take the meaning
of them as I will explain them. Remember what has been already
said,-that to the sick man his food appears to be and is bitter, and
to the man in health the opposite of bitter. Now I cannot conceive
that one of these men can be or ought to be made wiser than the other:
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nor can you assert that the sick man because he has one impression
is foolish, and the healthy man because he has another is wise; but
the one state requires to be changed into the other, the worse into
the better. As in education, a change of state has to be effected, and
the sophist accomplishes by words the change which the physician works
by the aid of drugs. Not that any one ever made another think truly,
who previously thought falsely. For no one can think what is not, or
think anything different from that which he feels; and this is
always true. But as the inferior habit of mind has thoughts of kindred
nature, so I conceive that a good mind causes men to have good
thoughts; and these which the inexperienced call true, I maintain to
be only better, and not truer than others. And, O my dear Socrates,
I do not call wise men tadpoles: fa