Meno (80-84)

Men.

Socrates, I used to be told, before I began to meet you,

that yours was just a case of being in doubt yourself and making others doubt also: and so now I find you are merely bewitching me with your spells and incantations, which have reduced me to utter perplexity. And if I am indeed to have my jest, I consider that both in your appearance and in other respects you are extremely like the flat torpedo sea-fish; for it benumbs anyone who approaches and touches it, and something of the sort is what I find you have done to me now. For in truth I feel my soul and my tongue quite benumbed, and I am at a loss what answer to give you. And yet on countless occasions I have made abundant speeches on virtue to various people—and very good speeches they were, so I thought—but now I cannot say one word as to what it is. You are well advised, I consider, in not voyaging or taking a trip away from home; for if you went on like this as a stranger in any other city you would very likely be taken up for a wizard.

Soc.

You are a rogue, Meno, and had almost deceived me.

Men.

How is that, Socrates?

Soc.

I perceive your aim in thus comparing me.

Men.

What was it?

Soc.

That I might compare you in return. One thing I know about all handsome people is this—they delight in being compared to something. They do well over it, since fine features, I suppose, must have fine similes. But I am not for playing your game. As for me, if the torpedo is torpid itself while causing others to be torpid, I am like it, but not otherwise. For it is not from any sureness in myself that I cause others to doubt: it is from being in more doubt than anyone else that

I cause doubt in others. So now, for my part, I have no idea what virtue is, whilst you, though perhaps you may have known before you came in touch with me, are now as good as ignorant of it also. But none the less I am willing to join you in examining it and inquiring into its nature.

Men.

Why, on what lines will you look, Socrates, for a thing of whose nature you know nothing at all? Pray, what sort of thing, amongst those that you know not, will you treat us to as the object of your search? Or even supposing, at the best, that you hit upon it, how will you know it is the thing you did not know?

Soc.

I understand the point you would make, Meno.

Do you see what a captious argument you are introducing—that, forsooth, a man cannot inquire either about what he knows or about what he does not know? For he cannot inquire about what he knows, because he knows it, and in that case is in no need of inquiry; nor again can he inquire about what he does not know, since he does not know about what he is to inquire.

Men.

Now does it seem to you to be a good argument, Socrates?

Soc.

It does not.

Men.

Can you explain how not?

Soc.

I can; for I have heard from wise men and women who told of things divine that—

Men.

What was it they said ?

Soc.

Something true, as I thought, and admirable.

Men.

What was it? And who were the speakers?

Soc.

They were certain priests and priestesses who have studied so as to be able to give a reasoned account of their ministry; and Pindar also

and many another poet of heavenly gifts. As to their words, they are these: mark now, if you judge them to be true. They say that the soul of man is immortal, and at one time comes to an end, which is called dying, and at another is born again, but never perishes. Consequently one ought to live all one’s life in the utmost holiness.

For from whomsoever Persephone shall accept requital for ancient wrong,[*] the souls of these she restores in the ninth year to the upper sun again; from them arise

glorious kings and men of splendid might and surpassing wisdom, and for all remaining time are they called holy heroes amongst mankind.

Pind. Fr. 133 BergkSeeing then that the soul is immortal and has been born many times, and has beheld all things both in this world and in the nether realms, she has acquired knowledge of all and everything; so that it is no wonder that she should be able to recollect all that she knew before about virtue and other things. For as all nature is akin, and the soul has learned all things, there is no reason why we should not, by remembering but one single thing—an act which men call learning—discover everything else, if we have courage and faint not in the search; since, it would seem, research and learning are wholly recollection. So we must not hearken to that captious argument: it would make us idle, and is pleasing only to the indolent ear, whereas the other makes us energetic and inquiring. Putting my trust in its truth, I am ready to inquire with you into the nature of virtue.

Men.

Yes, Socrates, but what do you mean by saying that we do not learn, and that what we call learning is recollection? Can you instruct me that this is so?

Soc.

I remarked just now, Meno, that you are a rogue and so here you are asking if I can instruct you, when I say there is no teaching

but only recollection: you hope that I may be caught contradicting myself forthwith.

Men.

I assure you, Socrates; that was not my intention I only spoke from habit. But if you can somehow prove to me that it is as you say, pray do so.

Soc.

It is no easy matter, but still I am willing to try my best for your sake. Just call one of your own troop of attendants there,

whichever one you please, that he may serve for my demonstration.

Men.

Certainly. You, I say, come here.

Soc.

He is a Greek, I suppose, and speaks Greek?

Men.

Oh yes, to be sure—born in the house.

Soc.

Now observe closely whether he strikes you as recollecting or as learning from me.

Men.

I will.

Soc.

Tell me, boy, do you know that a square figure is like this?[*]

Boy.

I do.

Soc.

Now, a square figure has these lines, four in number, all equal?

Boy.

Certainly.

Soc.

And these, drawn through the middle,[*] are equal too, are they not?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

And a figure of this sort may be larger or smaller?

Boy.

To be sure.

Soc.

Now if this side were two feet and that also two, how many feet would the whole be? Or let me put it thus: if one way it were two feet, and only one foot the other, of course the space would be two feet taken once ?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

But as it is two feet also on that side, it must be twice two feet?

Boy.

It is.

Soc.

Then the space is twice two feet?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Well, how many are twice two feet? Count and tell me.

Boy.

Four, Socrates.

Soc.

And might there not be another figure twice the size of this, but of the same sort, with all its sides equal like this one?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Then how many feet will it be?

Boy.

Eight.

Soc.

Come now, try and tell me how long will each side

of that figure be. This one is two feet long: what will be the side of the other, which is double in size?

Boy.

Clearly, Socrates, double.

Soc.

Do you observe, Meno, that I am not teaching the boy anything, but merely asking him each time? And now he supposes that he knows about the line required to make a figure of eight square feet; or do you not think he does?

Men.

I do.

Soc.

Well, does he know?

Men.

Certainly not.

Soc.

He just supposes it, from the double size required?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

Now watch his progress in recollecting, by the proper use of memory. Tell me, boy,

do you say we get the double space from the double line? The space I speak of is not long one way and short the other, but must be equal each way like this one, while being double its size—eight square feet. Now see if you still think we get this from a double length of line.

Boy.

I do.

Soc.

Well, this line is doubled, if we add here another of the same length?

Boy.

Certainly.

Soc.

And you say we shall get our eight-foot space from four lines of this length?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Then let us describe the square, drawing four equal lines of that length. This will be what you say is the eight-foot figure, will it not?

Boy.

Certainly.

Soc.

And here, contained in it, have we not four squares, each of which is equal to this space of four feet?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Then how large is the whole? Four times that space, is it not?

Boy.

It must be.

Soc.

And is four times equal to double?

Boy.

No, to be sure.

Soc.

But how much is it?

Boy.

Fourfold.

Soc.

Thus, from the double-sized line, boy, we get a space, not of double, but of fourfold size.

Boy.

That is true.

Soc.

And if it is four times four it is sixteen, is it not?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

What line will give us a space of eight feet? This one gives us a fourfold space, does it not?

Boy.

It does.

Soc.

And a space of four feet is made from this line of half the length?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Very well; and is not a space of eight feet double the size of this one,

and half the size of this other?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Will it not be made from a line longer than the one of these, and shorter than the other?

Boy.

I think so.

Soc.

Excellent: always answer just what you think. Now tell me, did we not draw this line two feet, and that four?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Then the line on the side of the eight-foot figure should be more than this of two feet, and less than the other of four?

Boy.

It should.

Soc.

Try and tell me how much you would say it is.

Boy.

Three feet.

Soc.

Then if it is to be three feet, we shall add on a half to this one, and so make it three feet? For here we have two, and here one more, and so again on that side there are two, and another one; and that makes the figure of which you speak.

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Now if it be three this way and three that way, the whole space will be thrice three feet, will it not?

Boy.

So it seems.

Soc.

And thrice three feet are how many?

Boy.

Nine.

Soc.

And how many feet was that double one to be?

Boy.

Eight.

Soc.

So we fail to get our eight-foot figure from this three-foot line.

Boy.

Yes, indeed.

Soc.

But from what line shall we get it? Try and tell us exactly;

and if you would rather not reckon it out, just show what line it is.

Boy.

Well, on my word, Socrates, I for one do not know.

Soc.

There now, Meno, do you observe who progress he has already made in his recollection? At first he did not know what is the line that forms the figure of eight feet, and he does not know even now: but at any rate he thought he knew then, and confidently answered as though he knew, and was aware of no difficulty; whereas now he feels the difficulty he is in, and besides not knowing does not think

he knows.

Men.

That is true.

Soc.

And is he not better off in respect of the matter which he did not know?

Men.

I think that too is so.

Soc.

Now, by causing him to doubt and giving him the torpedo’s shock, have we done him any harm?

Men.

I think not.

Soc.

And we have certainly given him some assistance, it would seem, towards finding out the truth of the matter: for now he will push on in the search gladly, as lacking knowledge; whereas then he would have been only too ready to suppose he was right in saying, before any number of people any number of times,

that the double space must have a line of double the length for its side.

Men.

It seems so.

Soc.

Now do you imagine he would have attempted to inquire or learn what he thought he knew, when he did not know it, until he had been reduced to the perplexity of realizing that he did not know, and had felt a craving to know?

Men.

I think not, Socrates.

Soc.

Then the torpedo’s shock was of advantage to him?

Men.

I think so.

Soc.

Now you should note how, as a result of this perplexity, he will go on and discover something by joint inquiry with me, while I merely ask questions

and do not teach him; and be on the watch to see if at any point you find me teaching him or expounding to him, instead of questioning him on his opinions. Tell me, boy: here we have a square of four feet,[*] have we not? You understand?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

And here we add another square[*] equal to it?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

And here a third,[*] equal to either of them?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Now shall we fill up this vacant space[*] in the corner?

Boy.

By all means.

Soc.

So here we must have four equal spaces?

BOY. Yes.

Soc.

Well now, how many times larger is this whole space than this other?

Boy.

Four times.

Soc.

But it was to have been only twice, you remember?

Boy.

To be sure.