Phaedo (102-106)

Phaedo. That is true, said Simmias and Cebes together.

Echecrates. By Zeus, Phaedo, they were right. It seems to me that he made those matters astonishingly clear, to anyone with even a little sense.

Phaedo. Certainly, Echecrates, and all who were there thought so, too.

Echecrates. And so do we who were not there, and are hearing about it now. But what was said after that?

Phaedo. As I remember it, after all this had been admitted, and they had agreed that each of the abstract qualities exists and that other things which participate in these get their names from them, then Socrates asked: Now if you assent to this, do you not, when you say that Simmias is greater than Socrates and smaller than Phaedo, say that there is in Simmias greatness and smallness? Yes. But, said Socrates, you agree that the statement that Simmias is greater than Socrates is not true as stated in those words. For Simmias is not greater than Socrates by reason of being Simmias, but by reason of the greatness he happens to have; nor is he greater than Socrates because Socrates is Socrates, but because Socrates has smallness relatively to his greatness. True. And again, he is not smaller than Phaedo because Phaedo is Phaedo, but because Phaedo has greatness relatively to Simmias’s smallness. That is true. Then Simmias is called small and great, when he is between the two, surpassing the smallness of the one by exceeding him in height, and granting to the other the greatness that exceeds his own smallness. And he laughed and said, I seem to he speaking like a legal document, but it really is very much as I say. Simmias agreed. I am speaking so because I want you to agree with me. I think it is evident not only that greatness itself will never be great and also small, but that the greatness in us will never admit the small or allow itself to be exceeded. One of two things must take place: either it flees or withdraws when its opposite, smallness, advances toward it, or it has already ceased to exist by the time smallness comes near it. But it will not receive and admit smallness, thereby becoming other than it was. So I have received and admitted smallness and am still the same small person I was; but the greatness in me, being great, has not suffered itself to become small. In the same way the smallness in us will never become or be great, nor will any other opposite which is still what it was, ever become or be also its own opposite. It either goes away or loses its existence in the change.

Phaedo. That, said Cebes, seems to me quite evident. Then one of those present—I don’t just remember who it was—said: In Heaven’s name, is not this present doctrine the exact opposite of what was fitted in our earlier discussion, that the greater is generated from the less and the less from the greater and that opposites are always generated from their opposites? But now it seems to me we are saying, this can never happen. Socrates cocked his head on one side and listened. You have spoken up like a man, he said, but you do not observe the difference between the present doctrine and what we said before. We said before that in the case of concrete things opposites are generated from opposites; whereas now we say that the abstract concept of an opposite can never become its own opposite, either in us or in the world about us. Then we were talking about things which possess opposite qualities and are called after them, but now about those very opposites the immanence of which gives the things their names. We say that these latter can never be generated from each other. At the same time he looked at Cebes and said: And you—are you troubled by any of our friends’ objections? No, said Cebes, not this time; though I confess that objections often do trouble me. Well, we are quite agreed, said Socrates, upon this, that an opposite can never be its own opposite. Entirely agreed, said Cebes. Now, said he, see if you agree with me in what follows: Is there something that you call heat and something you call cold? Yes. Are they the same as snow and fire? No, not at all. But heat is a different thing from fire and cold differs from snow? Yes. Yet I fancy you believe that snow, if (to employ the form of phrase we used before) it admits heat, will no longer be what it was, namely snow, and also warm, but will either withdraw when heat approaches it or will cease to exist. Certainly. And similarly fire, when cold approaches it, will either withdraw or perish. It will never succeed in admitting cold and being still fire, as it was before, and also cold. That is true, said he. The fact is, said he, in some such cases, that not only the abstract idea itself has a right to the same name through all time, but also something else, which is not the idea, but which always, whenever it exists, has the form of the idea. But perhaps I can make my meaning clearer by some examples. In numbers, the odd must always have the name of odd, must it not? Certainly.

Phaedo. But is this the only thing so called (for this is what I mean to ask), or is there something else, which is not identical with the odd but nevertheless has a right to the name of odd in addition to its own name, because it is of such a nature that it is never separated from the odd? I mean, for instance, the number three, and there are many other examples. Take the case of three; do you not think it may always be called by its own name and also be called odd, which is not the same as three? Yet the number three and the number five and half of numbers in general are so constituted, that each of them is odd though not identified with the idea of odd. And in the same way two and four and all the other series of numbers are even, each of them, though not identical with evenness. Do you agree, or not? Of course, he replied. Now see what I want to make plain. This is my point, that not only abstract opposites exclude each other, but all things which, although not opposites one to another, always contain opposites; these also, we find, exclude the idea which is opposed to the idea contained in them, and when it approaches they either perish or withdraw. We must certainly agree that the number three will endure destruction or anything else rather than submit to becoming even, while still remaining three, must we not? Certainly, said Cebes. But the number two is not the opposite of the number three. No. Then not only opposite ideas refuse to admit each other when they come near, but certain other things refuse to admit the approach of opposites. Very true, he said. Shall we then, said Socrates, determine if we can, what these are? Certainly. Then, Cebes, will they be those which always compel anything of which they take possession not only to take their form but also that of some opposite? What do you mean? Such things as we were speaking of just now. You know of course that those things in which the number three is an essential element must be not only three but also odd. Certainly. Now such a thing can never admit the idea which is the opposite of the concept which produces this result. No, it cannot. But the result was produced by the concept of the odd? Yes. And the opposite of this is the idea of the even? Yes. Then the idea of the even will never be admitted by the number three. No. Then three has no part in the even. No, it has none. Then the number three is uneven. Yes.

Phaedo. Now I propose to determine what things, without being the opposites of something, nevertheless refuse to admit it, as the number three, though it is not the opposite of the idea of even, nevertheless refuses to admit it, but always brings forward its opposite against it, and as the number two brings forward the opposite of the odd and fire that of cold, and so forth, for there are plenty of examples. Now see if you accept this statement: not only will opposites not admit their opposites, but nothing which brings an opposite to that which it approaches will ever admit in itself the oppositeness of that which is brought. Now let me refresh your memory; for there is no harm in repetition. The number five will not admit the idea of the even, nor will ten, the double of five, admit the idea of the odd. Now ten is not itself an opposite, and yet it will not admit the idea of the odd; and so one-and-a-half and other mixed fractions and one-third and other simple fractions reject the idea of the whole. Do you go with me and agree to this? Yes, I agree entirely, he said, and am with you. Then, said Socrates, please begin again at the beginning. And do not answer my questions in their own words, but do as I do. I give an answer beyond that safe answer which I spoke of at first, now that I see another safe reply deduced from what has just been said. If you ask me what causes anything in which it is to be hot, I will not give you that safe but stupid answer and say that it is heat, but I can now give a more refined answer, that it is fire; and if you ask, what causes the body in which it is to be ill, I shall not say illness, but fever; and if you ask what causes a number in which it is to be odd, I shall not say oddness, but the number one, and so forth. Do you understand sufficiently what I mean? Quite sufficiently, he replied. Now answer, said he. What causes the body in which it is to be alive? The soul, he replied. Is this always the case? Yes, said he, of course. Then if the soul takes possession of anything it always brings life to it? Certainly, he said. Is there anything that is the opposite of life? Yes, said he. What? Death. Now the soul, as we have agreed before, will never admit the opposite of that which it brings with it. Decidedly not, said Cebes. Then what do we now call that which does not admit the idea of the even? Uneven, said he. And those which do not admit justice and music? Unjust, he replied, and unmusical. Well then what do we call that which does not admit death? Deathless or immortal, he said. And the soul does not admit death? No. Then the soul is immortal. Yes. Very well, said he. Shall we say then that this is proved? Yes, and very satisfactorily, Socrates.

Phaedo. Well then, Cebes, said he, if the odd were necessarily imperishable, would not the number three be imperishable? Of course. And if that which is without heat were imperishable, would not snow go away whole and unmelted whenever heat was brought in conflict with snow? For it could not have been destroyed, nor could it have remained and admitted the heat. That is very true, he replied. In the same way, I think, if that which is without cold were imperishable, whenever anything cold approached fire, it would never perish or be quenched, but would go away unharmed. Necessarily, he said. And must not the same be said of that which is immortal? If the immortal is also imperishable, it is impossible for the soul to perish when death comes against it. For, as our argument has shown, it will not admit death and will not be dead, just as the number three, we said, will not be even, and the odd will not be even, and as fire, and the heat in the fire, will not be cold. But, one might say, why is it not possible that the odd does not become even when the even comes against it (we agreed to that), but perishes, and the even takes its place? Now we cannot silence him who raises this question by saying that it does not perish, for the odd is not imperishable. If that were conceded to us, we could easily silence him by saying that when the even approaches, the odd and the number three go away; and we could make the corresponding reply about fire and heat and the rest, could we not? Certainly. And so, too, in the case of the immortal; if it is conceded that the immortal is imperishable, the soul would be imperishable as well as immortal, but if not, further argument is needed. But, he said, it is not needed, so far as that is concerned; for surely nothing would escape destruction, if the immortal, which is everlasting, is perishable. All, I think, said Socrates, would agree that God and the Principle of life, and anything else that is immortal, can never perish. All men would, certainly, said he, and still more, I fancy, the Gods. Since, then, the immortal is also indestructible, would not the soul, if it is immortal, be also imperishable? Necessarily. Then when death comes to a man, his mortal part, it seems, dies, but the immortal part goes away unharmed and undestroyed, withdrawing from death. So it seems.