The Apocryphal Eleventh Book
of Plato's Republic

by Steven V. Hight

Translator's Note: In the spring of last year, in the ancient Library of Damascus, Syria, was found a remarkable, if problematic, document: a lost Socratic dialogue. The document, I must stress, has not been authenticated. The authorship is explicitly ascribed, in the document's introduction, to Plato, and it seems clear the dialogue is intended to be a continuation of the dialogue come down to us as the Republic. The introduction also maintains the document is a copy of a scroll from the Library of Alexandria, a claim that raises as many questions as it answers:

When was it copied? By whom? Why was it separate from the remaining text of the Republic? Was it, even then, thought to be apocryphal, or was it merely on a separate scroll, somehow separated from the remainder? Was it a survivor of the Library's fire, copied by conquering Muslims, centuries after Cæsar, to be translated, copied, and recopied later? Or was it originally copied when the Library was at its height, when the Library, at a price, supplied the ancient world with its literature, perhaps copied by the Library's forgotten Greek scribes themselves? Why, when the rest of Plato's writing has been known to us for centuries, has this document come to light only now? Is it a hoax? Is it apocryphal, perhaps written by a student of Plato's, seeking to honor the old master, or by one of his enemies, perhaps, seeking to discredit him? Or is it, we must ask, the genuine article?

The dialogue itself does little to answer these questions: It is handwritten on vellum, and the prose is clearly thirteenth-century courtly Arabic. A fragment of the vellum has been radiocarbon dated at Oxford, and the report, given the margin of error, suggests the parchment to be as much as two-hundred years older than its prose-style would suggest. This, in itself, is not conclusive, since the vellum also shows signs of scraping, indicating re-use. The ink has been subjected to spectrographic analysis, and the distribution of metals in the ink is not inconsistent with materials that would have been readily available, given the time and region, nor is it inconsistent with other inks known to have been in use at the time. Perhaps further, costlier chemical study will reveal the origins of the materials used in the ink, and thus shed light on the regional origin of the document itself.

Those tests, for now, remain to the future. Textual analysis, could, in the meantime, help determine the probability of authenticity, and undoubtedly will do so in the near future. This type of analysis is, however, both beyond my ability and beyond the scope of this translation. Unfortunately, we have no copy of this document in Greek, nor for that matter, in Latin. Most scholars of Plato are proficient in Greek, not Arabic. That language is my specialty, but, alas, barring the standard undergraduate courses, I am sadly deficient in the knowledge of Greek philosophical thought. I cannot help but notice, however, the resemblance between the ideas proposed at the end of the dialogue and my Catholic belief in God as a Trinity of the composite parts Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I wonder if Paul or Augustine had access to this book, and it is their succeeding generations that have long suffered without. A thorough textual analysis must wait for those better prepared than I, but, with any luck, my little translation into English will help modern students of Plato determine, for themselves, the veracity of the eleventh book of Plato's Republic.

I must make brief acknowledgment here of the invaluable assistance of the staffs of the great Library of Damascus, the Oxford antiquities department, the British Museum, and the several translators whose works I consulted for Greek spellings and background knowledge. Any mistakes are, of course, solely my own.

***

Republic, Book XI

A very pretty story, Socrates, although I can recite for you others, still more eloquent and convincing, said Thrasymachus. He stepped from behind a curtain, where he had hidden, forgotten, lo these many talkative hours.

You startle me, Thrasymachus, I said. What intend you now?

A matter of a fee still weighs on me. I have not yet been paid, and I believe Glaucon had promised to support you in this matter.

Your money is guaranteed, rest you. But have you no pretty speeches for us now, Thrasymachus? You were so long gone, I thought you fled, but I see your empty purse grumbles like a belly. Glaucon, will you fill it?

By God yes! said Glaucon, from where he sat. I am not want to break a promise, not even to Thrasymachus. Here is your silver. Spend it well.

Thank you, Glaucon, said Thrasymachus. It will make a fine sacrifice at the temple. And to you, Socrates, I must also give thanks. I was far from convinced by your arguments to me, but your discussions with these two rascals have been most revealing. I have yet questions for you, however. Will you answer?

I have said before the unexamined life is not worth living. I will indulge you your questions, although I note the cock's crow as we speak.

Well, then, what of this line of which you speak? Is it truth or analogy?

I stated clearly, analogy. It is merely a tool to get to the truth.

A reflection?

Yes, exactly.

How, then, does the line correspond to the cave? I have thought long on this, missing some of your discussion of just rule, to which I admit little interest, for you speak of pretty theories, while I refer to uncontrovertible, observed facts. Justice is, in practice anyway, rule for the benefit of the stronger, whether the stronger be a king or a mob, and until your theoretical construct becomes reality, a prospect I do not think likely, however desirable, I shall maintain the truth of these observations. Anyway, your ideas are merely those of the traitor Critias in new garb: the rulers, in his state as well as yours, must lie to the masses, create false gods, and encourage obedience through fear of divine punishment. Do you deny it?

Thrasymachus, you give me much to discuss, even in so short a speech. But I will, as I promised, answer your questions. You asked me, at first, I believe, to explain the relationship of the line to the cave, not to disagree with you on the nature of justice. Am I correct?

You are. Justice will keep.

Then, I must admit, to your first question, I have no ready answer. The two analogies came to mind independently of each other, at different times, and, like all ideas, must remain mere shadows of the truth. Shadows made even further from the truth by our very attempts to discuss them. I have never seriously tried to draw an analogy between the analogies.

I see. You said the fire in the cave represents the sun. By this did you mean the sun of your previous analogy, or the sun outside the cave? I have my own ideas, but I wish, first, to hear yours, if it suits you.

It does. Thank you for your consideration, Thrasymachus. The fire is roughly analogous to both suns, I think, for all three provide illumination that we may see more clearly, and, thus, illuminate the truth. But if I may stray, I am interested in your answers, if it pleases you, for it is clear you have ideas of your own. May we three, Glaucon, Adeimantus, and myself, hear you?

You may. I think, however, I shall have to charge you another fee. It is, as you note, a new day.

You shall, as before, have your pay, said Glaucon. But I shall give you naught if your answer serves merely to waste our time. As the poet says, Dawn, rosy-fingered, spreads on the eastern horizon, and we have yet to retire.

That is fair, and I am in agreement. I shall not keep you longer than necessary, for perhaps the Muse will sing also in me, to make my tongue swift. Surely, Cephalus is too good a host not to provide us beds? He has long since returned from the sacrifice and sleeps even now, but his slaves know us well. We shall be bedded down like drunkards after a feast soon enough.

Well said, Thrasymachus, said Adeimantus, but perhaps you could as equally well say your answer. We await.

And patiently, I see. Very well. The line and the cave, as you say, Socrates, are not truths but reflections of truths, designed to help those of us without benefit of your clear vision to eventually see the truth. You, then, are the prisoner in the cave, unfettered now, having already stumbled to the light and recognized it for what it is. You have now returned to the cave, sunspots in your eyes, to show the rest of us the way, to drag us into the light of the truth. Am I correct?

I would not claim so much.

Your modesty amuses me, Socrates. Let us continue. Allow me, for the moment, to be your guide into the light.

If one your age so wishes, I shall not immediately object.

Your deference is most kind. The line, then, is really two analogies, is it not? The first presents us your ontology, your theory of being, and the second, your epistemology, your theory of knowledge. The lower two sections of the line represent, ontologically, the visible world, made up, first, of images, and, secondly, of objects that cast those images, all illuminated by the light of the sun. We continue then into the intelligible world, composed, in the first place, of ideas we harbor in our souls, and in the second, the forms of those ideas, of which we have no direct perception, but which are illuminated by truth, which, of course, comes from the Good. If we examine the line epistemologically, then, it shows us the hierarchy of knowledge, the lower part being opinion, which is conjecture first, and belief second. The upper part is true knowledge, being understanding first, and pure reason second.

You are correct in this, I interjected.

I am gratified to hear it. I must ask, does the shackled prisoner in the cave reside in the visible world and the world of opinion? When shackled, does he experience images and conjecture only, and when first freed, he knows only objects and belief?

The answers to both questions would be yes.

Then, when he is brought out into the sun, does he not enter into the intelligible world, the world of true knowledge? And once there, is he not exposed, first of all, to ideas and understanding, and then, when perfected, to the forms and true reason?

Again, you understand me perfectly, I said to him.

You do not realize, I think, how infrequently those words must escape your lips, and how significant they are.

Thrasymachus here paused. His interest had piqued mine, and I bade him continue.

Yes, thank you, I shall. I admit to a thirst, however, and must attend to it. Glaucon, will you have wine fetched?

A slave brought wine and Thrasymachus resumed.

The cave is also two analogies, do you see? Yes, it is also the first grand analogy we have already discussed, but the details correspond to two more analogies, replicated, as it were, both inside and outside the cave.

Then it is really three analogies! said Glaucon, as he poured our wine and offered a silent libation.

I am not certain I intended three analogies, I said, but the truth is revealed in mysterious ways. Do explain.

It is complicated, but I will endeavor not to be opaque. Inside the cave, in the world of the visible and of opinion, the prisoner, still shackled, sees only shadows, mere images, that he conjectures to be real. Once freed and turned, he sees the puppets, the objects, above the wall, that he believes to be real. Moving forward, he notes the logoi, the motivating ideas, represented by puppeteers, that he understands to be real. And then he looks directly at the fire, the illuminating form, that, through pure reason, he now knows to be real.

I understand you! said Glaucon. If I may interject?

By all means, Glaucon. If you have an insight, let us hear it! And you, Adeimantus. Speak, if you have words to say. By the gods, Socrates, I am beginning to enjoy this method of yours!

I chose not to reply, but, instead, allowed Glaucon to speak.

Thrasymachus, you have something there, and I think I see where you are going with it. Once outside the cave, in the sunlit world, we can once again use the analogy of the line. The sunlit world is really the intelligible world and the world of knowledge. Am I correct in this?

I believe you are, Glaucon, but Socrates should judge; it is his analogy.

Continue, Glaucon, I said. You show rare insight today. Perhaps we should spend more sleepless nights in company.

I thank you, Socrates. A good suggestion, I would opine. Very well, then. Once out of the cave, blinded by the sun, the eyes of our former prisoner slowly adjust so he can discern shadows and reflections, images he conjectures to be the truth. After more adjustment, however, he realizes his mistake, being able now to see physical objects, trees and the like, that he believes are the truth. And next . . . I must apologize. I can visualize the end of the analogy and the place of the sun, but I fail to see the middle. Do shadows alone represent images, and reflections the objects? That would make objects ideas. Surely I surmise incorrectly?

You do, said Thrasymachus. But I applaud your achievement. I dwelled on the matter for hours and still required Socrates to confirm my base assumptions.

I think I know, said Adeimantus.

You? If it pleases, do explain.

Glaucon was correct up until he stumbled over ideas. The shadows and reflections are of a type, that is, they are images the prisoner conjectures to be the truth. And next, the prisoner comes to believe the objects he sees are the truth. And here, where Glaucon stopped, I recall Socrates mentioning that the prisoner's eyes have not yet adjusted enough to observe the sun directly, and that he must gain indirect knowledge of the sun by first studying the stars and the moon. Am I accurate in my recollection, Socrates?

You most certainly are, I said. I must confess a vice, but it makes me proud to see you begin to understand.

I do not have adequate words . . . Thank you, Socrates. Let me resume. An indirect understanding of the Good is an idea of the Good, I think we all agree on that. Indirectly studying the sun by looking at the moon and stars is much like indirectly studying the Good by examining ideas, as we four do now. So, the prisoner can now examine the moon and stars, ideas he understands to be truth. And finally, eyes fully adjusted, he is able to look directly at the sun, the illuminating form of the Good, that he now, through pure reason, knows to be the truth.

It was now my turn to speak. Thrasymachus, Glaucon, Adeimantus. You have all done quite well. I must admit you anticipated arguments only half-formed in my own soul. That is, perhaps, a failing of being too-ready to tackle the next question: I often leave other questions abandoned, not yet fully-explored, intending to return, but driven astray by newer questions still. It is the curse of the philosopher. But now I suggest we retire to our beds. Cephalus's slave has readied us a chamber and a light breakfast.

Excuse me, Socrates. I have yet to earn my money, for I have another idea.

Can it not keep, Thrasymachus? asked Glaucon.

It had best not. If I retire, I might forget, the idea relegated to the world of my dreams.

Save a discussion of dreams for later, at least, said Adeimantus. We can discuss those when you renew your arguments with Socrates about justice. On with your final idea. Glaucon and I will listen.

With your permission, Socrates?

Of course. Old men need less sleep than others, or so I am told.

It seems to me the analogy of the line can be used readily to explain most, if not all, of your ideas. Let us look at an example. Justice, as you explain it, exists in a form that somehow touches our souls to inspire ideas. We take those ideas and turn them into laws, objects, if you will, for objects need not be solid, I believe. These laws must be interpreted, enforced, and obeyed, being but shadows of the truth. Or, taken from the lowest conception to the highest, first we conjecture that our obedience is justice. Then we believe the laws themselves are justice. Next we come to understand that our ideas of justice are really justice. Finally, through pure reason, we come to know the form of justice. Do you see?

Of course, I replied. It is my analogy.

You must see, then, that the end product of this process, the form, must be pre-existent for the process to have been created in the first place? The form is both the beginning and the end! Alpha kai omega. Given this, a line is not adequate to describe either your ontology or your epistemology, for the ends have to meet. What better way for the ends of a line to meet than in a circle?

A triangle, said Glaucon.

I turned to Glaucon, as did Thrasymachus and Adeimantus, and asked him, How is that?

Thrasymachus interrupted. A triangle has only three sides; the line has four parts. Explain away that, if you will.

Well, said Glaucon, a circle would be a fine analogy in that the ends do meet, but where are the divisions of a circle? Where would we assign the parts of the line, Thrasymachus?

Your question is well-asked. I have no answer, not being a geometer. But I cannot see how you can superimpose the four parts of the line onto the three sides of a triangle. If my circle must have angles, would not a square be more appropriate?

No, I think not. Let me try this. Imagine, if you will, an amphora in its tripod. The tripod would not exist, would have no purpose, were it not for the amphora; the amphora would topple were it not for the tripod. The three legs of the tripod each represent a concept of a particular truth, let us say, conjecture, belief, and understanding, accordingly. These would not exist without the amphora, that is to say, pure reason. Neither could pure reason exist without the intermediate steps of conjecture, belief, and understanding. The amphora then represents a form, both cause and effect, origin and destination, beginning and end. It is the telos.

Thrasymachus said, Then the triangle, I suppose, must merely be a simplification of your amphora analogy, each side representing the progressive, or regressive, conceptualizations, and the whole being labeled as the form? Moderation plus courage plus wisdom equals the form of the just soul? The city of pigs plus the luxurious city plus the kallipolis equals the form of the just state? The sides of the triangle are necessary for the triangle, itself, to exist; without the form of the triangle, the sides could not come together in that particular shape. Beginning and end . . . For this to be true, the whole must be greater than the sum of its parts, for the whole must also exist before the parts are brought together!

And here Thrasymachus paused to muse, before resuming wistfully, I can easily imagine a long, perhaps infinite, series of triangles, all interconnected, each being a form of a truth, each form making up a side, somehow, of an even greater truth, recessing toward chaos like the sands on a beach recess to the ocean, advancing toward the Good like the sands give way to pebbles, that in turn give way to rocks, then boulders, then to the precipices that line the beach.

A beautiful, if fractured, image, said Adeimantus.

Yes, indeed beautiful, said Glaucon. I believe you have it. We must note, exactly as the line is a clarification of the cave, so is the triangle a clarification of the line, once we incorporate Thrasymachus's realization that the form must exist at both the beginning and the end. Simpler analogies, being less cluttered with ideas, must be closer to the truth, and if much closer to the truth, much closer to the Good. Am I right Socrates?

I believe you must be, I replied.

Thrasymachus continued, excitement replacing his momentary wistfulness, Is this the way to the Good, then? Perhaps even a way to the gods?

Are you suggesting the gods can somehow be described by these triangles? asked Adeimantus. There are so many.

Surely, there are not, answered Thrasymachus. If I may be so impious, I believe there are far fewer than is commonly held. Why, for example, do we have female gods? They are unnecessary to explain nature, and you yourself, Socrates, admitted the simplest analogy must be closer to the truth.

I did. I did, didn't I? Still, it is commonly held there are female gods. Take Venus, for example.

You take her. Eros explains all my desires.

I grant you. I continued, If you are correct, how many gods would you propose?

Thrasymachus grumbled silently, so Glaucon answered, Well, Socrates, if the analogy we have been using is true, and I think now it must be, then I would say only three. Well, four, actually. And I think I agree with Thrasymachus they should be male. What say you, Adeimantus?

Oh, yes, definitely male. Yes, of course, male. Why hadn't we realized it sooner?

Perhaps we have allowed women too much influence in our affairs of late, responded Thrasymachus. What properties would these gods have? Warrior? Poet? Philosopher?

They must be like the kallipolis, composed of bronze, silver, and gold to make up the perfect whole, answered Glaucon. Bronze would be the lesser male, the worker, the messenger who comes among the people, perhaps, like Hermes. Silver would, of course, be the warrior, the protector and destroyer, like Ares. Gold would have to be a philosopher, a king among the gods, like Zeus. The three together, then, would form the perfect god, the true god, each part separable and independent, yet also dependent on the existence of the whole. What think you. Socrates? Is this blasphemy?

I think not, I answered, intending to put a cap on this discussion, for my own thoughts have often strayed in similar directions. Blasphemy or no, I think it would be imprudent to discuss these matters outside our little circle. Or would that be a triangle? If so, I mused, who sits at the center as the ideal philosopher? Noting their responses, I added, Do not grimace so; I only jest. It is rewarding to see one's ideas so well-understood, even simplified. Although I rather liked the detail of the cave analogy, I suppose it is not strictly necessary. Congratulations, Glaucon. You will be a philosopher, yet. And you, Thrasymachus, you have earned your fee. Will you give up your sophistry now? Your part, also, Adeimantus, is to be recognized, as you recognized the part of the stars and moon. From our discussion today, no doubt, great ideas will spring forth. Now, if it pleases you, and it does please me, let us seek breakfast and bed, ere one of us, and I am the older and weaker, succumbs to fatigue and hunger.

© 1998 Steven V. Hight. Revised and Renewed 2005.