What follows are thoughts that occurred to me while reading this book, organized according to its chapters. For me, the value of a book is determined largely by the quality of thoughts given to me as I read it. If they are of high enough quality, I write them down.
1. Arguing with Plato
Persuasion is a powerful (and sometimes dangerous) tool. If one is persuasive enough, one can convince another person to believe something that is false. This raises a question about the role of persuasion in discovering the truth: Can persuasion lead to knowledge? And, closely related, can persuasion ever justify anything like epistemic confidence? Or should “knowledge” be restricted to a more narrow range—say, to mathematics and first-hand experiences—and persuasion relegated to mere “belief” or “opinion”? This might sound rather pedantic until one stops and looks around. Observe all of the people convinced—via persuasion—of incompatible things. The present political climate in the United States, torn as it is between the so called Right and Left, demonstrates that persuasion is a powerful force in life, by no means mere pedantry. Subjecting the phenomenon of persuasion to philosophical analysis—asking what it is, questioning its value, testing its reliability—is something Plato is very good at. Philosophy, whatever it is for Plato, entails arguing. And arguing involves persuasion. Thus, to practice philosophy (and Plato is keen on philosophy as a practice) is to relate to persuasion in an appropriate manner. Philosophy is incompatible with mere persuasion since it aims only at the truth: What is real, philosophers ask, in spite of popular opinion? And yet, persuasion plays an ineluctable role in searching for the truth. Whatever the truth is, Plato thinks, it must be the most truly persuasive reality—eternally persuasive. This search for the eternally true, the truly persuasive, over and against the perspectival and merely persuasive, is at the core of Plato’s construal of philosophy as the “love of wisdom.”
Knowledge must be attained “for oneself.” There is an inevitable first-hand-ness to knowledge. One must get to know the object of knowledge personally, even passionately. One cannot “know” for another. Regardless of the object of knowledge (be it mathematics, music, a book, the concept of justice), knowledge requires existential commitment from the knower. Plato leads his reader through various arguments and lines of inquiry that grant the opportunity for precisely this kind of commitment. But he only grants the opportunity; he cannot make the commitment on the reader’s behalf. To make this commitment is to begin the practice of philosophy.
2. Plato’s Name, and Other Matters
Plato was born in Athens in 427 BCE and died in 347. In Critias, he writes that his family descended from the sixth-century statesman Solon, who brought reforms that put Athens on the road to democracy. Plato lived through the Peloponnesian War, which Athens lost in 409 BCE. As a result, antidemocratic sympathizers took power and set up a government of thirty (the Thirty Tyrants)—two of whom were relatives of Plato. Plato, in other words, came from a family divided by civil war.
Plato is, understandably, a figure who can be interpreted in different ways. Some reckoned him a superhuman sage, a son of Apollo, a genius among mere cave-dwellers. Others reckoned him a political idealist simply disillusioned with his social context. However he is interpreted, it is worth asking whether or not access to the “real” Plato is even possible, or desirable. Various interpretations of him were probably contested before he died, and this will almost certainly continue to be the case in the future.
The figure of Socrates exercised a lasting influence on Plato. Socrates is the chief character in almost every dialogue, and he models more than anyone else the values of philosophy. Socrates is described as talking to individuals openly about matters of ultimate concern, stressing the importance of understanding precisely what is being talked about (the subject matter). Philosophers ever since have stressed the necessity of defining terms, achieving understanding as to what must be taken for granted at the most basic level of thinking. Cross-examination consists of getting clear about “what is what,” in an ontological sense—what is courage, justice, piety, love, knowledge, the good life? For Socrates, who never wrote a word, this cross-examining comes about through dialogue with others.
Plato’s Academy was a place to think philosophically and carry on the tradition inaugurated by Socrates. While the Academy did not codify a certain set of doctrines that it required its students to adhere to, it did provide a place wherein people could reflect systematically on philosophical questions. In large part due to Plato, philosophy became systematic: not an organized set of dogma, per se, but a set of distinctly philosophical concerns, questions, and attempted answers.
3. Drama, Fiction, and the Elusive Author
Philosophy, for Plato, aims only at the truth, not at mere persuasion. For this reason, philosophy resists the main cultural ways of speaking and thinking, which tend to either forget the question of truth altogether, or grow to despise it outright. Socrates is a controversial figure, admired by some and despised by most, largely because of his uncompromising pursuit of the truth—which, in each of the dialogues, his interlocutors come to realize they do not possess (though they perhaps thought they did before). It is easy, therefore, to become self-conscious and uncertain when practicing philosophy, at least for a time when one is losing one’s unthought-through assumptions and questioning that which was once taken-for-granted. Philosophy, then, is not mere entertainment, nor a tool to get whatever one wants. Philosophy is, instead, a searching, refining, sometimes painful quest for the truth. Plato’s dialogues are, of course, “literary” and imaginative, but more importantly, they raise serious issues and require readers to examine, question, and test claims in a way that leaves behind mere imagination.
Two dominant traditions have claimed Plato’s works as their own. First, there is the Skeptical/Academic tradition. This reading sees Socrates as a figure of irony, knowing nothing himself—except that he knows nothing—and never putting his own positive positions forward. Plato takes no positions of his own, on this reading; he simply presents various philosophical viewpoints through his many characters, and Socrates shows that they all lead to “aporia,” irresolvable internal contradiction. The second, and more familiar, reading interprets Plato as the creator of “Platonism”: a doctrinal system about logic (and epistemology), physics (and metaphysics), and ethics (and politics). Annas suggests that these two traditions can learn from each other since there is an element of truth in both of them—Plato almost certainly does have views of his own on the various issues he writes about, but he writes in dialogue form so as to allow the reader to come to his or her own conclusion about the matter.
Reading Plato takes work. His dialogues do not assert one position that must be assented to on his authority; the reader must think through the issue for him- or herself. Only in this way does the matter of thinking become one’s own, “for oneself.”
4. Love, Sex, Gender, and Philosophy
Homoerotic love was part of Plato’s social world, especially between adult men and adolescent boys. But Plato romanticized the teacher-pupil relationship as transcending merely physical attraction. For him, this idealized relationship consists of concern for the other’s soul—his psychological and mental well-being. The impetus for this relationship, relatedly, is not desire for hedonistic or bodily pleasure, but desire transformed by concern for the soul rather than the body—the desire to become a better person.
Love plays an essential part in this philosophical relationship. In Plato’s Symposium, philosophical inquiry and understanding itself are transformations of sexual desire, which is sublimated beyond particular gratifications and transfigured into contemplation of universal truths. This desire comes from within and is genuine, just like love (eros). It also takes place between persons by means of joint activity like conversation. Philosophical desire, furthermore, cannot be instrumentally produced—it drives one to focus all of one’s efforts to achieve an aim that one feels one cannot live without, however impossible attainment might seem. For Plato, philosophy and love possess certain shared characteristics, and one might even say that they are intertwined—philosophers are lovers of wisdom.
Plato is critical of the nuclear family for the ways in which it creates selfishness, competitiveness, and hostility toward outsiders. It is impossible to create a harmonious and cooperative society, he thinks, so long as the nuclear family remains its most basic organizational mechanism (more on this in the next chapter). For this reason, Plato saw women, who are not to be confined to the home, as having access to the same sorts of responsibilities as men—they are to be guardians of society, along with men. This was, Annas says, revolutionary in Plato’s day. While Plato has little or nothing to teach modern feminism, we can still be impressed by his ability to recognize the role, responsibilities, and contributions of women as a philosophical problem.
5. Virtue, in Me and in My Society
Plato assumes that humans seek happiness (eudaemonia)—not simply to live, but to live well. But what is happiness? And what does it mean to live well? Typical answers to these questions are success, fame, riches, power, or perhaps all of them combined. But Plato was a faithful student of Socrates. And although his teacher relinquished worldly success and ended up condemned as a criminal and executed, Plato believes that Socrates—more than any other person—embodies happiness and reveals what it means to live well. What, then, is happiness and the well-lived life, on Plato’s account?
The answer is virtue. Virtue is a sort of practical reason that enables one to do good with the materials of life, just like a craftsman uses tools (which are useless in the absence of a craftsman who knows how to use them properly) to make something with them. Virtues are “divine goods” that enable one to deal well with the material advantages (“human goods”) of life. Without virtue, human goods like health, wealth, good looks, and so on will not ensure happiness or a well-lived life—indeed, in the absence of virtue, Plato thinks, such human goods might even be harmful. For this reason, virtue is to be valued above all else. It is not one good among others, but the unconditional good that allows all merely conditional goods to be useful in the craft of living well. Without virtue, conditional goods will inevitably spoil and preclude, rather than assist, the attainment of happiness. Virtue is, therefore, the controlling and determining factor in one’s life: all other goods are simply instruments for it to work on. Plato also sometimes writes of virtue in a way that anticipates Stoicism when he says that philosophical activity leads one to detach from everyday concerns. Philosophers are unconcerned with (even despise) making money, looking attractive, attaining social capital, etc. They are concerned only with virtue, even if living virtuously leads to the loss of each of these human goods—or even one’s life, as in the example of Socrates. (On this account, Plato is different from Aristotle, who thinks that human goods are a more essential component of the happy life than does Plato).
Plato also reflects on virtue vis-à-vis society as a whole. In particular, he is very concerned about the harmful impacts of popular entertainment on the moral compass of the polis. Homer’s epics, which were the dominant form of Greek entertainment (somewhat like modern-day television, movies, etc.), depicted gods as betrayers, war-like, etc. and so, Plato thought, were not fit for his ideal society. Plato is perhaps the first to see the role that popular opinion and entertainment play in the construction and distribution of societal values. Such content needs to be rigorously regulated, or else societal virtue will be compromised. For Plato, the main issue that plagues society is competitive individualism. (The nuclear family is complicit in this since it would rather drag its goods into its own house and use them up privately rather than cooperate in the production of shared goods). Plato’s virtuous society, instead, contains citizens who identify themselves with each other and live with a keen eye for the needs of the whole.
A word on democracy: Given Plato’s concern (one might even say anxiety) about society devolving into a chaotic scramble of competing and self-serving voices, he is suspicious of democratic systems of government. In his Republic, political power is in the hands of the philosopher-kings, who own no private property, take part in no nuclear family, and are formally educated in the art and science of political governance so as to ensure that society functions virtuously. In such an idealized society, Plato thinks, individual and societal virtue coincide.
6. My Soul and Myself
In Greek thought, the soul (psyche) is what causes living things to be alive. Without the soul, the matter of which living things consists would lack all source of movement and vitality. This leaves open a great deal of questions pertaining to the soul and its relationship to the body. Plato’s position is “dualistic”: the soul (which moderns often call “mind”) is radically different from the body. Furthermore, Plato thinks that what one most truly is, one’s self (as it were), is to be identified with soul.
Plato thinks that the soul possesses different sources of motivation. He, therefore, divides the soul into three parts or aspects. The lowest part is “desire” (epithumia), which accounts for the simple more instinctual urges for things like drink, warmth, taste, etc. The middle aspect is “spirit” or “passion” (thumos), which accounts for feelings of fear, anger, courage, etc. Finally, and most importantly, for Plato, is the highest part called “reason” or “intellect” (nous), which accounts for the ability of humans to grasp the whole of one’s life and deliberate about what is good for one. The good life is one in which one’s intellectual part of the soul rules the other two. Only nous can see the good of the whole person, whereas epithumia and thumos lack self-control and the capacity for rational deliberation. For example, imagine that the lower part of one’s soul desires to stay up late every single night, watching cartoons and eating potato chips. The higher part of the soul will deliberate about this desire and ask whether any part of this desire is wise: “Is it wise to be sleep-deprived? Are potato chips a good food choice? And what does it mean to sleep and eat well? Probably best that I get to bed at a reasonable hour since I work early most mornings, and maybe fruit is a better snack.” Likewise, imagine that the middle part of one’s soul feels extreme anger every time one gets stuck in traffic, cursing at other drivers on the road and complaining about how annoying and offensive all of them are. The higher part of the soul will deliberate about these feelings and ask whether they are reasonable: “Is it wise to be so angry at these people who, like me, are simply trying to get home from work? Have they done me any harm? And how will cursing at them do me any good? Perhaps there is another route I could take from now on to cut down on commute time, or maybe I could consider taking the train into the city rather than driving.” In these ways, one’s intellectual part guides, and sometimes outright restricts, the potentially harmful desires and feelings that are rooted in the two lesser parts. Left to their own devices, epithumia and thumos can be, at best, catalysts for stupid decision-making, and at worst, catalysts for extreme harm to oneself and others. But with nous as their guide, they can be ingredients of the good life.
Epistemologically, Plato construes the senses as giving the soul data (sense-impressions) that the soul reflects on and goes beyond. Soul, in other words, makes sense of, cognizes, and unifies sensory information about the world.
Lastly, the soul survives a person’s death. Plato pursues various lines of thinking about the soul, and his accounts are not always constant. But he never wavers in thinking that the soul is ontologically different from the body, that it is immortal, and that what one really is is not consigned to one’s embodied human life.
7. The Nature of Things
Plato thinks that the world displays a striking degree of order. He likens the world to the creation of an all-good craftsperson who imposes order on otherwise unruly materials. This divine craftsperson is not to be identified with the God of monotheism: although Plato’s divine craftsperson is wholly good and free of all jealously, he is not the creator ex nihilo (an absurd idea to Greek thought), but rather the organizer of preexisting matter. This theology is deeply out of sync with the popular polytheistic religion of ancient Greece, which viewed the gods as jealous and often treacherous—a mixture of good, bad, and ugly. Plato is critical of the popular religion of his day and censors all of the (mostly Homeric) stories depicting the gods as petty and destructive. Plato, instead, argues that in the ideal society, the gods will be viewed as totally good and incapable of being bribed to overlook wrongdoing.
Plato thinks very highly of mathematics and views it as preparatory for philosophical thinking. Probably the most famous aspect of Plato’s thought is his so called “theory of Form,” which Annas thinks is a suspect notion since Plato never offers anything like a self-consistent “theory.” Since Plato writes of the Forms in such an elusive way, she suggests, his interpreters should be hesitant to make any definitive claims about them. Annas, consistent with her proposed hesitancy, gives very little to her reader by way of interpretation. She does dismiss the common misconception that Forms are identical with “universals,” saying that this view is based on a mistranslation of a passage from the Republic (596a). Annas insists that Plato writes enough to get reflection on the Forms up and running—saying that all material things “come to be” while Forms “are, without coming to be”—without giving a full-fledged account of them. As is fitting for Platonic indirection, the conversation about forms—what they are, whether they are, etc.—continues by means of argumentation (dialectic). Ironically, the Forms, which Plato says “are, without coming to be,” were debated in Plato’s day and are still being debated today. If the Forms are unchanging, thinking about them is certainly not.
In the end, says Annas, Plato’s greatest message is that philosophy is not fundamentally about believing in the existence of Forms, the importance of virtue, or his version of the ideal society, but about engaging with him, and with one another, in the practice of philosophical discussion in the mutual pursuit of wisdom.