Written 360 B.C.E
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
Socrates - GLAUCON
Of the many excellences which I perceive in the order of our State, there is none which upon reflection pleases me
better than the rule about poetry.
To what do you refer?
To the rejection of imitative poetry, which certainly ought not to be received; as I see far more clearly now that the
parts of the soul have been distinguished.
What do you mean?
Speaking in confidence, for I should not like to have my words repeated to the tragedians and the rest of the
imitative tribe --but I do not mind saying to you, that all poetical imitations are ruinous to the understanding of the
hearers, and that the knowledge of their true nature is the only antidote to them.
Explain the purport of your remark.
Well, I will tell you, although I have always from my earliest youth had an awe and love of Homer, which even
now makes the words falter on my lips, for he is the great captain and teacher of the whole of that charming tragic
company; but a man is not to be reverenced more than the truth, and therefore I will speak out.
Very good, he said.
Listen to me then, or rather, answer me.
Put your question.
Can you tell me what imitation is? for I really do not know.
A likely thing, then, that I should know.
Why not? for the duller eye may often see a thing sooner than the keener.
Very true, he said; but in your presence, even if I had any faint notion, I could not muster courage to utter it. Will
you enquire yourself?
Well then, shall we begin the enquiry in our usual manner: Whenever a number of individuals have a common
name, we assume them to have also a corresponding idea or form. Do you understand me?
Let us take any common instance; there are beds and tables in the world --plenty of them, are there not?
But there are only two ideas or forms of them --one the idea of a bed, the other of a table.
And the maker of either of them makes a bed or he makes a table for our use, in accordance with the idea --that
is our way of speaking in this and similar instances --but no artificer makes the ideas themselves: how could he?
And there is another artist, --I should like to know what you would say of him.
Who is he?
One who is the maker of all the works of all other workmen.
What an extraordinary man!
Wait a little, and there will be more reason for your saying so. For this is he who is able to make not only vessels
of every kind, but plants and animals, himself and all other things --the earth and heaven, and the things which are
in heaven or under the earth; he makes the gods also.
He must be a wizard and no mistake.
Oh! you are incredulous, are you? Do you mean that there is no such maker or creator, or that in one sense there
might be a maker of all these things but in another not? Do you see that there is a way in which you could make
them all yourself?
An easy way enough; or rather, there are many ways in which the feat might be quickly and easily accomplished,
none quicker than that of turning a mirror round and round --you would soon enough make the sun and the
heavens, and the earth and yourself, and other animals and plants, and all the, other things of which we were just
now speaking, in the mirror.
Yes, he said; but they would be appearances only.
Very good, I said, you are coming to the point now. And the painter too is, as I conceive, just such another --a
creator of appearances, is he not?
But then I suppose you will say that what he creates is untrue. And yet there is a sense in which the painter also
creates a bed?
Yes, he said, but not a real bed.
And what of the maker of the bed? Were you not saying that he too makes, not the idea which, according to our
view, is the essence of the bed, but only a particular bed?
Yes, I did.
Then if he does not make that which exists he cannot make true existence, but only some semblance of existence;
and if any one were to say that the work of the maker of the bed, or of any other workman, has real existence, he
could hardly be supposed to be speaking the truth.
At any rate, he replied, philosophers would say that he was not speaking the truth.
No wonder, then, that his work too is an indistinct expression of truth.
Suppose now that by the light of the examples just offered we enquire who this imitator is?
If you please.
Well then, here are three beds: one existing in nature, which is made by God, as I think that we may say --for no
one else can be the maker?
There is another which is the work of the carpenter?
And the work of the painter is a third?
Beds, then, are of three kinds, and there are three artists who superintend them: God, the maker of the bed, and
Yes, there are three of them.
God, whether from choice or from necessity, made one bed in nature and one only; two or more such ideal beds
neither ever have been nor ever will be made by God.
Why is that?
Because even if He had made but two, a third would still appear behind them which both of them would have for
their idea, and that would be the ideal bed and the two others.
Very true, he said.
God knew this, and He desired to be the real maker of a real bed, not a particular maker of a particular bed, and
therefore He created a bed which is essentially and by nature one only.
So we believe.
Shall we, then, speak of Him as the natural author or maker of the bed?
Yes, he replied; inasmuch as by the natural process of creation He is the author of this and of all other things.
And what shall we say of the carpenter --is not he also the maker of the bed?
But would you call the painter a creator and maker?
Yet if he is not the maker, what is he in relation to the bed?
I think, he said, that we may fairly designate him as the imitator of that which the others make.
Good, I said; then you call him who is third in the descent from nature an imitator?
Certainly, he said.
And the tragic poet is an imitator, and therefore, like all other imitators, he is thrice removed from the king and
from the truth?
That appears to be so.
Then about the imitator we are agreed. And what about the painter? --I would like to know whether he may be
thought to imitate that which originally exists in nature, or only the creations of artists?
As they are or as they appear? You have still to determine this.
What do you mean?
I mean, that you may look at a bed from different points of view, obliquely or directly or from any other point of
view, and the bed will appear different, but there is no difference in reality. And the same of all things.
Yes, he said, the difference is only apparent.
Now let me ask you another question: Which is the art of painting designed to be --an imitation of things as they
are, or as they appear --of appearance or of reality?
Then the imitator, I said, is a long way off the truth, and can do all things because he lightly touches on a small part
of them, and that part an image. For example: A painter will paint a cobbler, carpenter, or any other artist, though
he knows nothing of their arts; and, if he is a good artist, he may deceive children or simple persons, when he
shows them his picture of a carpenter from a distance, and they will fancy that they are looking at a real carpenter.
And whenever any one informs us that he has found a man knows all the arts, and all things else that anybody
knows, and every single thing with a higher degree of accuracy than any other man --whoever tells us this, I think
that we can only imagine to be a simple creature who is likely to have been deceived by some wizard or actor
whom he met, and whom he thought all-knowing, because he himself was unable to analyse the nature of
knowledge and ignorance and imitation.
And so, when we hear persons saying that the tragedians, and Homer, who is at their head, know all the arts and
all things human, virtue as well as vice, and divine things too, for that the good poet cannot compose well unless he
knows his subject, and that he who has not this knowledge can never be a poet, we ought to consider whether
here also there may not be a similar illusion. Perhaps they may have come across imitators and been deceived by
them; they may not have remembered when they saw their works that these were but imitations thrice removed
from the truth, and could easily be made without any knowledge of the truth, because they are appearances only
and not realities? Or, after all, they may be in the right, and poets do really know the things about which they seem
to the many to speak so well?
The question, he said, should by all means be considered.
Now do you suppose that if a person were able to make the original as well as the image, he would seriously
devote himself to the image-making branch? Would he allow imitation to be the ruling principle of his life, as if he
had nothing higher in him?
I should say not.
The real artist, who knew what he was imitating, would be interested in realities and not in imitations; and would
desire to leave as memorials of himself works many and fair; and, instead of being the author of encomiums, he
would prefer to be the theme of them.
Yes, he said, that would be to him a source of much greater honour and profit.
Then, I said, we must put a question to Homer; not about medicine, or any of the arts to which his poems only
incidentally refer: we are not going to ask him, or any other poet, whether he has cured patients like Asclepius, or
left behind him a school of medicine such as the Asclepiads were, or whether he only talks about medicine and
other arts at second hand; but we have a right to know respecting military tactics, politics, education, which are
the chiefest and noblest subjects of his poems, and we may fairly ask him about them. 'Friend Homer,' then we
say to him, 'if you are only in the second remove from truth in what you say of virtue, and not in the third --not an
image maker or imitator --and if you are able to discern what pursuits make men better or worse in private or
public life, tell us what State was ever better governed by your help? The good order of Lacedaemon is due to
Lycurgus, and many other cities great and small have been similarly benefited by others; but who says that you
have been a good legislator to them and have done them any good? Italy and Sicily boast of Charondas, and there
is Solon who is renowned among us; but what city has anything to say about you?' Is there any city which he might
I think not, said Glaucon; not even the Homerids themselves pretend that he was a legislator.
Well, but is there any war on record which was carried on successfully by him, or aided by his counsels, when he
There is not.
Or is there any invention of his, applicable to the arts or to human life, such as Thales the Milesian or Anacharsis
the Scythian, and other ingenious men have conceived, which is attributed to him?
There is absolutely nothing of the kind.
But, if Homer never did any public service, was he privately a guide or teacher of any? Had he in his lifetime
friends who loved to associate with him, and who handed down to posterity an Homeric way of life, such as was
established by Pythagoras who was so greatly beloved for his wisdom, and whose followers are to this day quite
celebrated for the order which was named after him?
Nothing of the kind is recorded of him. For surely, Socrates, Creophylus, the companion of Homer, that child of
flesh, whose name always makes us laugh, might be more justly ridiculed for his stupidity, if, as is said, Homer was
greatly neglected by him and others in his own day when he was alive?
Yes, I replied, that is the tradition. But can you imagine, Glaucon, that if Homer had really been able to educate
and improve mankind --if he had possessed knowledge and not been a mere imitator --can you imagine, I say,
that he would not have had many followers, and been honoured and loved by them? Protagoras of Abdera, and
Prodicus of Ceos, and a host of others, have only to whisper to their contemporaries: 'You will never be able to
manage either your own house or your own State until you appoint us to be your ministers of education' --and this
ingenious device of theirs has such an effect in making them love them that their companions all but carry them
about on their shoulders. And is it conceivable that the contemporaries of Homer, or again of Hesiod, would have
allowed either of them to go about as rhapsodists, if they had really been able to make mankind virtuous? Would
they not have been as unwilling to part with them as with gold, and have compelled them to stay at home with
them? Or, if the master would not stay, then the disciples would have followed him about everywhere, until they
had got education enough?
Yes, Socrates, that, I think, is quite true.
Then must we not infer that all these poetical individuals, beginning with Homer, are only imitators; they copy
images of virtue and the like, but the truth they never reach? The poet is like a painter who, as we have already
observed, will make a likeness of a cobbler though he understands nothing of cobbling; and his picture is good
enough for those who know no more than he does, and judge only by colours and figures.
In like manner the poet with his words and phrases may be said to lay on the colours of the several arts, himself
understanding their nature only enough to imitate them; and other people, who are as ignorant as he is, and judge
only from his words, imagine that if he speaks of cobbling, or of military tactics, or of anything else, in metre and
harmony and rhythm, he speaks very well --such is the sweet influence which melody and rhythm by nature have.
And I think that you must have observed again and again what a poor appearance the tales of poets make when
stripped of the colours which music puts upon them, and recited in simple prose.
Yes, he said.
They are like faces which were never really beautiful, but only blooming; and now the bloom of youth has passed
away from them?
Here is another point: The imitator or maker of the image knows nothing of true existence; he knows appearances
only. Am I not right?
Then let us have a clear understanding, and not be satisfied with half an explanation.
Of the painter we say that he will paint reins, and he will paint a bit?
And the worker in leather and brass will make them?
But does the painter know the right form of the bit and reins? Nay, hardly even the workers in brass and leather
who make them; only the horseman who knows how to use them --he knows their right form.
And may we not say the same of all things?
That there are three arts which are concerned with all things: one which uses, another which makes, a third which
And the excellence or beauty or truth of every structure, animate or inanimate, and of every action of man, is
relative to the use for which nature or the artist has intended them.
Then the user of them must have the greatest experience of them, and he must indicate to the maker the good or
bad qualities which develop themselves in use; for example, the flute-player will tell the flute-maker which of his
flutes is satisfactory to the performer; he will tell him how he ought to make them, and the other will attend to his
The one knows and therefore speaks with authority about the goodness and badness of flutes, while the other,
confiding in him, will do what he is told by him?
The instrument is the same, but about the excellence or badness of it the maker will only attain to a correct belief;
and this he will gain from him who knows, by talking to him and being compelled to hear what he has to say,
whereas the user will have knowledge?
But will the imitator have either? Will he know from use whether or no his drawing is correct or beautiful? Or will
he have right opinion from being compelled to associate with another who knows and gives him instructions about
what he should draw?
Then he will no more have true opinion than he will have knowledge about the goodness or badness of his
I suppose not.
The imitative artist will be in a brilliant state of intelligence about his own creations?
Nay, very much the reverse.
And still he will go on imitating without knowing what makes a thing good or bad, and may be expected therefore
to imitate only that which appears to be good to the ignorant multitude?
Thus far then we are pretty well agreed that the imitator has no knowledge worth mentioning of what he imitates.
Imitation is only a kind of play or sport, and the tragic poets, whether they write in iambic or in Heroic verse, are
imitators in the highest degree?
And now tell me, I conjure you, has not imitation been shown by us to be concerned with that which is thrice
removed from the truth?
And what is the faculty in man to which imitation is addressed?
What do you mean?
I will explain: The body which is large when seen near, appears small when seen at a distance?
And the same object appears straight when looked at out of the water, and crooked when in the water; and the
concave becomes convex, owing to the illusion about colours to which the sight is liable. Thus every sort of
confusion is revealed within us; and this is that weakness of the human mind on which the art of conjuring and of
deceiving by light and shadow and other ingenious devices imposes, having an effect upon us like magic.
And the arts of measuring and numbering and weighing come to the rescue of the human understanding-there is
the beauty of them --and the apparent greater or less, or more or heavier, no longer have the mastery over us, but
give way before calculation and measure and weight?
And this, surely, must be the work of the calculating and rational principle in the soul
To be sure.
And when this principle measures and certifies that some things are equal, or that some are greater or less than
others, there occurs an apparent contradiction?
But were we not saying that such a contradiction is the same faculty cannot have contrary opinions at the same
time about the same thing?
Then that part of the soul which has an opinion contrary to measure is not the same with that which has an opinion
in accordance with measure?
And the better part of the soul is likely to be that which trusts to measure and calculation?
And that which is opposed to them is one of the inferior principles of the soul?
This was the conclusion at which I was seeking to arrive when I said that painting or drawing, and imitation in
general, when doing their own proper work, are far removed from truth, and the companions and friends and
associates of a principle within us which is equally removed from reason, and that they have no true or healthy
The imitative art is an inferior who marries an inferior, and has inferior offspring.
And is this confined to the sight only, or does it extend to the hearing also, relating in fact to what we term poetry?
Probably the same would be true of poetry.
Do not rely, I said, on a probability derived from the analogy of painting; but let us examine further and see
whether the faculty with which poetical imitation is concerned is good or bad.
By all means.
We may state the question thus: --Imitation imitates the actions of men, whether voluntary or involuntary, on
which, as they imagine, a good or bad result has ensued, and they rejoice or sorrow accordingly. Is there anything
No, there is nothing else.
But in all this variety of circumstances is the man at unity with himself --or rather, as in the instance of sight there
was confusion and opposition in his opinions about the same things, so here also is there not strife and
inconsistency in his life? Though I need hardly raise the question again, for I remember that all this has been
already admitted; and the soul has been acknowledged by us to be full of these and ten thousand similar
oppositions occurring at the same moment?
And we were right, he said.
Yes, I said, thus far we were right; but there was an omission which must now be supplied.
What was the omission?
Were we not saying that a good man, who has the misfortune to lose his son or anything else which is most dear
to him, will bear the loss with more equanimity than another?
But will he have no sorrow, or shall we say that although he cannot help sorrowing, he will moderate his sorrow?
The latter, he said, is the truer statement.
Tell me: will he be more likely to struggle and hold out against his sorrow when he is seen by his equals, or when
he is alone?
It will make a great difference whether he is seen or not.
When he is by himself he will not mind saying or doing many things which he would be ashamed of any one
hearing or seeing him do?
There is a principle of law and reason in him which bids him resist, as well as a feeling of his misfortune which is
forcing him to indulge his sorrow?
But when a man is drawn in two opposite directions, to and from the same object, this, as we affirm, necessarily
implies two distinct principles in him?
One of them is ready to follow the guidance of the law?
How do you mean?
The law would say that to be patient under suffering is best, and that we should not give way to impatience, as
there is no knowing whether such things are good or evil; and nothing is gained by impatience; also, because no
human thing is of serious importance, and grief stands in the way of that which at the moment is most required.
What is most required? he asked.
That we should take counsel about what has happened, and when the dice have been thrown order our affairs in
the way which reason deems best; not, like children who have had a fall, keeping hold of the part struck and
wasting time in setting up a howl, but always accustoming the soul forthwith to apply a remedy, raising up that
which is sickly and fallen, banishing the cry of sorrow by the healing art.
Yes, he said, that is the true way of meeting the attacks of fortune.
Yes, I said; and the higher principle is ready to follow this suggestion of reason?
And the other principle, which inclines us to recollection of our troubles and to lamentation, and can never have
enough of them, we may call irrational, useless, and cowardly?
Indeed, we may.
And does not the latter --I mean the rebellious principle --furnish a great variety of materials for imitation?
Whereas the wise and calm temperament, being always nearly equable, is not easy to imitate or to appreciate
when imitated, especially at a public festival when a promiscuous crowd is assembled in a theatre. For the feeling
represented is one to which they are strangers.
Then the imitative poet who aims at being popular is not by nature made, nor is his art intended, to please or to
affect the principle in the soul; but he will prefer the passionate and fitful temper, which is easily imitated?
And now we may fairly take him and place him by the side of the painter, for he is like him in two ways: first,
inasmuch as his creations have an inferior degree of truth --in this, I say, he is like him; and he is also like him in
being concerned with an inferior part of the soul; and therefore we shall be right in refusing to admit him into a
well-ordered State, because he awakens and nourishes and strengthens the feelings and impairs the reason. As in
a city when the evil are permitted to have authority and the good are put out of the way, so in the soul of man, as
we maintain, the imitative poet implants an evil constitution, for he indulges the irrational nature which has no
discernment of greater and less, but thinks the same thing at one time great and at another small-he is a
manufacturer of images and is very far removed from the truth.
But we have not yet brought forward the heaviest count in our accusation: --the power which poetry has of
harming even the good (and there are very few who are not harmed), is surely an awful thing?
Yes, certainly, if the effect is what you say.
Hear and judge: The best of us, as I conceive, when we listen to a passage of Homer, or one of the tragedians, in
which he represents some pitiful hero who is drawling out his sorrows in a long oration, or weeping, and smiting
his breast --the best of us, you know, delight in giving way to sympathy, and are in raptures at the excellence of
the poet who stirs our feelings most.
Yes, of course I know.
But when any sorrow of our own happens to us, then you may observe that we pride ourselves on the opposite
quality --we would fain be quiet and patient; this is the manly part, and the other which delighted us in the
recitation is now deemed to be the part of a woman.
Very true, he said.
Now can we be right in praising and admiring another who is doing that which any one of us would abominate and
be ashamed of in his own person?
No, he said, that is certainly not reasonable.
Nay, I said, quite reasonable from one point of view.
What point of view?
If you consider, I said, that when in misfortune we feel a natural hunger and desire to relieve our sorrow by
weeping and lamentation, and that this feeling which is kept under control in our own calamities is satisfied and
delighted by the poets;-the better nature in each of us, not having been sufficiently trained by reason or habit,
allows the sympathetic element to break loose because the sorrow is another's; and the spectator fancies that
there can be no disgrace to himself in praising and pitying any one who comes telling him what a good man he is,
and making a fuss about his troubles; he thinks that the pleasure is a gain, and why should he be supercilious and
lose this and the poem too? Few persons ever reflect, as I should imagine, that from the evil of other men
something of evil is communicated to themselves. And so the feeling of sorrow which has gathered strength at the
sight of the misfortunes of others is with difficulty repressed in our own.
How very true!
And does not the same hold also of the ridiculous? There are jests which you would be ashamed to make
yourself, and yet on the comic stage, or indeed in private, when you hear them, you are greatly amused by them,
and are not at all disgusted at their unseemliness; --the case of pity is repeated; --there is a principle in human
nature which is disposed to raise a laugh, and this which you once restrained by reason, because you were afraid
of being thought a buffoon, is now let out again; and having stimulated the risible faculty at the theatre, you are
betrayed unconsciously to yourself into playing the comic poet at home.
Quite true, he said.
And the same may be said of lust and anger and all the other affections, of desire and pain and pleasure, which are
held to be inseparable from every action ---in all of them poetry feeds and waters the passions instead of drying
them up; she lets them rule, although they ought to be controlled, if mankind are ever to increase in happiness and
I cannot deny it.
Therefore, Glaucon, I said, whenever you meet with any of the eulogists of Homer declaring that he has been the
educator of Hellas, and that he is profitable for education and for the ordering of human things, and that you
should take him up again and again and get to know him and regulate your whole life according to him, we may
love and honour those who say these things --they are excellent people, as far as their lights extend; and we are
ready to acknowledge that Homer is the greatest of poets and first of tragedy writers; but we must remain firm in
our conviction that hymns to the gods and praises of famous men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted
into our State. For if you go beyond this and allow the honeyed muse to enter, either in epic or lyric verse, not law
and the reason of mankind, which by common consent have ever been deemed best, but pleasure and pain will be
the rulers in our State.
That is most true, he said.
And now since we have reverted to the subject of poetry, let this our defence serve to show the reasonableness of
our former judgment in sending away out of our State an art having the tendencies which we have described; for
reason constrained us. But that she may impute to us any harshness or want of politeness, let us tell her that there
is an ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry; of which there are many proofs, such as the saying of 'the
yelping hound howling at her lord,' or of one 'mighty in the vain talk of fools,' and 'the mob of sages circumventing
Zeus,' and the 'subtle thinkers who are beggars after all'; and there are innumerable other signs of ancient enmity
between them. Notwithstanding this, let us assure our sweet friend and the sister arts of imitation that if she will
only prove her title to exist in a well-ordered State we shall be delighted to receive her --we are very conscious of
her charms; but we may not on that account betray the truth. I dare say, Glaucon, that you are as much charmed
by her as I am, especially when she appears in Homer?
Yes, indeed, I am greatly charmed.
Shall I propose, then, that she be allowed to return from exile, but upon this condition only --that she make a
defence of herself in lyrical or some other metre?
And we may further grant to those of her defenders who are lovers of poetry and yet not poets the permission to
speak in prose on her behalf: let them show not only that she is pleasant but also useful to States and to human life,
and we will listen in a kindly spirit; for if this can be proved we shall surely be the gainers --I mean, if there is a use
in poetry as well as a delight?
Certainly, he said, we shall the gainers.
If her defence fails, then, my dear friend, like other persons who are enamoured of something, but put a restraint
upon themselves when they think their desires are opposed to their interests, so too must we after the manner of
lovers give her up, though not without a struggle. We too are inspired by that love of poetry which the education
of noble States has implanted in us, and therefore we would have her appear at her best and truest; but so long as
she is unable to make good her defence, this argument of ours shall be a charm to us, which we will repeat to
ourselves while we listen to her strains; that we may not fall away into the childish love of her which captivates the
many. At all events we are well aware that poetry being such as we have described is not to be regarded seriously
as attaining to the truth; and he who listens to her, fearing for the safety of the city which is within him, should be
on his guard against her seductions and make our words his law.
Yes, he said, I quite agree with you.