It was 2009, and I was neck-deep in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, trying to draft a paper that wouldn’t make my professor yawn into his tweed elbow patches. Virtue, the golden mean, eudaimonia—I had all the right words but not enough soul behind them. I needed to understand where Aristotle came from. And that meant going back to his teacher. Enter: The Cambridge Companion to Plato, edited by Richard Kraut.
I still remember the bookstore—dusty, solemn, and filled with the kind of silence that only philosophy sections possess. I reached for the volume not as a student, but as a seeker. The cover was no-frills, the pages dense. But once I opened it, it felt like I had unlocked a secret dialogue behind the dialogues.
Each chapter gave me a new facet of the philosopher I thought I knew—Plato the metaphysician, Plato the political radical, Plato the poetic exile. I found essays that unpacked The Republic with surgical precision, analyses of The Symposium that made eros feel less dreamy and more divine, and a treatment of the Phaedrus that nearly made me cry over the soul’s longing for truth.
The book didn't offer comfort—it offered clarity. And sometimes, that’s the scarier gift.
In the middle of writing about Aristotle, I realised how much Plato had to say about the why behind every ought. The two were no longer just teacher and student—they were two parts of a grand intellectual duet, and I was now humming along.
That year, The Cambridge Companion to Plato didn’t just help my paper—it helped shift the furniture of my mind. It’s still on my shelf, pages dog-eared, marginalia scribbled in erasable pencil (because one must never presume too much in the realm of Ideas).