Book seven, part 1 of the Republic by Plato.
This Librivox recording is in the public domain.
Read by Bob Neufeld.
And now, I said, let me show in a figure how
far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened:—Behold!
human beings living in a underground den,
which has a mouth open towards the light and
reaching all along the den; here they have
been from their childhood, and have their
legs and necks chained so that they cannot
move, and can only see before them, being
prevented by the chains from turning round
their heads.
Above and behind them a fire is blazing at
a distance, and between the fire and the prisoners
there is a raised way; and you will see, if
you look, a low wall built along the way,
like the screen which marionette players have
in front of them, over which they show the
puppets.
I see.
And do you see, I said, men passing along
the wall carrying all sorts of vessels, and
statues and figures of animals made of wood
and stone and various materials, which appear
over the wall?
Some of them are talking, others silent.
You have shown me a strange image, and they
are strange prisoners.
Like ourselves, I replied; and they see only
their own shadows, or the shadows of one another,
which the fire throws on the opposite wall
of the cave?
True, he said; how could they see anything
but the shadows if they were never allowed
to move their heads?
And of the objects which are being carried
in like manner they would only see the shadows?
Yes, he said.
And if they were able to converse with one
another, would they not suppose that they
were naming what was actually before them?
Very true.
And suppose further that the prison had an
echo which came from the other side, would
they not be sure to fancy when one of the
passers-by spoke that the voice which they
heard came from the passing shadow?
No question, he replied.
To them, I said, the truth would be literally
nothing but the shadows of the images.
That is certain.
And now look again, and see what will naturally
follow if the prisoners are released and disabused
of their error.
At first, when any of them is liberated and
compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his
neck round and walk and look towards the light,
he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will
distress him, and he will be unable to see
the realities of which in his former state
he had seen the shadows; and then conceive
some one saying to him, that what he saw before
was an illusion, but that now, when he is
approaching nearer to being and his eye is
turned towards more real existence, he has
a clearer vision,—what will be his reply?
And you may further imagine that his instructor
is pointing to the objects as they pass and
requiring him to name them,—will he not
be perplexed?
Will he not fancy that the shadows which he
formerly saw are truer than the objects which
are now shown to him?
Far truer.
And if he is compelled to look straight at
the light, will he not have a pain in his
eyes which will make him turn away to take
refuge in the objects of vision which he can
see, and which he will conceive to be in reality
clearer than the things which are now being
shown to him?
True, he said.
And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly
dragged up a steep and rugged ascent, and
held fast until he is forced into the presence
of the sun himself, is he not likely to be
pained and irritated?
When he approaches the light his eyes will
be dazzled, and he will not be able to see
anything at all of what are now called realities.
Not all in a moment, he said.
He will require to grow accustomed to the
sight of the upper world.
And first he will see the shadows best, next
the reflections of men and other objects in
the water, and then the objects themselves;
then he will gaze upon the light of the moon
and the stars and the spangled heaven; and
he will see the sky and the stars by night
better than the sun or the light of the sun
by day?
Certainly.
Last of all he will be able to see the sun,
and not mere reflections of him in the water,
but he will see him in his own proper place,
and not in another; and he will contemplate
him as he is.
Certainly.
He will then proceed to argue that this is
he who gives the season and the years, and
is the guardian of all that is in the visible
world, and in a certain way the cause of all
things which he and his fellows have been
accustomed to behold?
Clearly, he said, he would first see the sun
and then reason about him.
And when he remembered his old habitation,
and the wisdom of the den and his fellow-prisoners,
do you not suppose that he would felicitate
himself on the change, and pity them?
Certainly, he would.
And if they were in the habit of conferring
honours among themselves on those who were
quickest to observe the passing shadows and
to remark which of them went before, and which
followed after, and which were together; and
who were therefore best able to draw conclusions
as to the future, do you think that he would
care for such honours and glories, or envy
the possessors of them?
Would he not say with Homer,
‘Better to be the poor servant of a poor
master,’
and to endure anything, rather than think
as they do and live after their manner?
Yes, he said, I think that he would rather
suffer anything than entertain these false
notions and live in this miserable manner.
Imagine once more, I said, such an one coming
suddenly out of the sun to be replaced in
his old situation; would he not be certain
to have his eyes full of darkness?
To be sure, he said.
And if there were a contest, and he had to
compete in measuring the shadows with the
prisoners who had never moved out of the den,
while his sight was still weak, and before
his eyes had become steady (and the time which
would be needed to acquire this new habit
of sight might be very considerable), would
he not be ridiculous?
Men would say of him that up he went and down
he came without his eyes; and that it was
better not even to think of ascending; and
if any one tried to loose another and lead
him up to the light, let them only catch the
offender, and they would put him to death.
No question, he said.
This entire allegory, I said, you may now
append, dear Glaucon, to the previous argument;
the prison-house is the world of sight, the
light of the fire is the sun, and you will
not misapprehend me if you interpret the journey
upwards to be the ascent of the soul into
the intellectual world according to my poor
belief, which, at your desire, I have expressed—whether
rightly or wrongly God knows.
But, whether true or false, my opinion is
that in the world of knowledge the idea of
good appears last of all, and is seen only
with an effort; and, when seen, is also inferred
to be the universal author of all things beautiful
and right, parent of light and of the lord
of light in this visible world, and the immediate
source of reason and truth in the intellectual;
and that this is the power upon which he who
would act rationally either in public or private
life must have his eye fixed.
I agree, he said, as far as I am able to understand
you.
Moreover, I said, you must not wonder that
those who attain to this beatific vision are
unwilling to descend to human affairs; for
their souls are ever hastening into the upper
world where they desire to dwell; which desire
of theirs is very natural, if our allegory
may be trusted.
