But he says it in a rather riddling fashion, as a prophet would; for “Know thyself!” and “Be temperate!” are the same, as 165a the inscription ¹ and I declare, though one is likely enough to think them different—an error into which I consider the dedicators of the later inscriptions fell when they put up Nothing overmuch ² and A pledge, and thereupon perdition. ³ For they supposed that Know thyself! was a piece of advice, and not the god’s salutation of those who were entering; and so, in order that their dedications too might equally give pieces of useful advice, they wrote these words and dedicated them. Now my object in saying all this, Socrates, is to abandon to you all the previous argument— 165b for, though perhaps it was you who were more in the right, or perhaps it was I, yet nothing at all certain emerged from our statements—and to proceed instead to satisfy you of this truth, if you do not admit it, that temperance is knowing oneself.

Why, Critias, I said, you treat me as though I professed to know the things on which I ask questions, and needed only the will to agree with you. But the fact of the matter is rather that I join you in the inquiry, each time that a proposition is made, because I myself do not know; I wish therefore to consider first, 165c before I tell you whether I agree or not. Now, give me a moment to consider.

Consider then, he said.

Yes, and I am considering, I said. For if temperance is knowing anything, obviously it must be a kind of science, and a science of something, must it not?

It is, he replied, and of itself.

And medicine, I said, is a science of health?

Certainly.

Then if you should ask me, I said, wherein medicine, as a science of health, is useful to us, and what it produces, 165d I should say it is of very great benefit, since it produces health; an excellent result, if you allow so much.

I allow it.

And so, if you should ask me what result I take to be produced by building, as the builder’s science, I should say houses; and it would be the same with the other arts. Now it is for you, in your turn, to find an answer to a question regarding temperance—since you say it is a science of self, Critias—and to tell me what excellent result it produces for us, 165e as science of self, and what it does that is worthy of its name. Come now, tell me.

But, Socrates, he said, you are not inquiring rightly. For in its nature it is not like the other sciences, any more than any of them is like any other; whereas you are making your inquiry as though they were alike.

For tell me, he said, what result is there of the arts of reckoning and geometry, in the way that a house is of building, or a coat of weaving, or other products of the sort that one might point to 166a in various arts? Well, can you, for your part, point to any such product in those two cases? You cannot.

To this I replied: What you say is true; but I can point out to you what is the peculiar subject of each of these sciences, distinct in each case from the science itself. Thus reckoning, I suppose, is concerned with the even and the odd in their numerical relations to themselves and to one another, is it not?

Certainly, he said.

And you grant that the odd and the even are different from the actual art of reckoning?

Of course. 166b And once more, weighing is concerned with the heavier and the lighter weight; but the heavy and the light are different from the actual art of weighing: you agree?

I do.

Then tell me, what is that of which temperance is the science, differing from temperance itself?

There you are, Socrates, he said: you push your investigation up to the real question at issue—in what temperance differs from all the other sciences—but you then proceed to seek some resemblance between it 166c and them; whereas there is no such thing, for while all the rest of the sciences have something other than themselves as their subject, this one alone is a science of the other sciences and of its own self. And of this you are far from being unconscious, since in fact, as I believe, you are doing the very thing you denied you were doing just now: for you are attempting to refute me, without troubling to follow the subject of our discussion.

How can you think, I said, if my main effort is to refute you, that I do it with any other motive than that which 166d would impel me to investigate the meaning of my own words—from a fear of carelessly supposing, at any moment, that I knew something while I knew it not? And so it is now: that is what I am doing, I tell you. I am examining the argument mainly for my own sake, but also, perhaps, for that of my other intimates. Or do you not think it is for the common good, almost, of all men, that the truth about everything there is should be discovered?

Yes indeed, he replied, I do, Socrates.

Then take heart, I said, my admirable friend, and answer the question put to you as you deem the case to be, without caring a jot 166ewhether it is Critias or Socrates who is being refuted: give the argument itself your attention, and observe what will become of it under the test of refutation.

Well, he said, I will do so; for I think there is a good deal in what you say.

Then tell me, I said, what you mean in regard to temperance.

Why, I mean, he said, that it alone of all the sciences is the science both of itself and of the other sciences.

So then, I said, it will be the science of the lack of science also, besides being the science of science? ⁴

Certainly, he replied.

Then only the temperate person will know himself, and be able to discern what he really knows and does not know, and have the power of judging what other people likewise know and think they know, in cases where they do know, and again, what they think they know, without knowing it; everyone else will be unable. And so this is being temperate, or temperance, and knowing oneself—that one should know what one knows and what one does not know. Is that what you mean?

It is, he replied.

Once more then, I said, as our third offering to the Saviour, ⁵ 167b let us consider afresh, in the first place, whether such a thing as this is possible or not—to know that one knows, and does not know, what one knows and what one does not know; and secondly, if this is perfectly possible, what benefit we get by knowing it.

We must indeed consider, he said.

Come then, I said, Critias, consider if you can show yourself any more resourceful than I am; for I am at a loss. Shall I explain to you in what way?

By all means, he replied.

Well, I said, what all this comes to, if your last statement was correct, is merely that there is one science which 167c is precisely a science of itself and of the other sciences, and moreover is a science of the lack of science at the same time.

Certainly.

Then mark what a strange statement it is that we are attempting to make, my friend: for if you will consider it as applied to other cases, you will surely see—so I believe—its impossibility.

How so? In what cases?

In the following: ask yourself if you think there is a sort of vision which is not the vision of things that we see in the ordinary way, but a vision of itself and of the other sorts of vision, 167dand of the lack of vision likewise; which, while being vision, sees no color, but only itself and the other sorts of vision. Do you think there is any such?

Upon my word, I do not.

And what do you say to a sort of hearing which hears not a single sound, but hears itself and the other sorts of hearing and lack of hearing?

I reject that also.

Then take all the senses together as a whole, and consider if you think there is any sense of the senses and of itself, but insensible of any of the things of which the other senses are sensible.

I do not. 167e Now, do you think there is any desire which is the desire, not of any pleasure, but of itself and of the other desires ?

No, indeed.

Nor, again, is there a wish, I imagine, that wishes no good, but wishes itself and the other wishes.

Quite so; there is not.

And would you say there is any love of such a sort that it is actually a love of no beauty, but of itself and of the other loves?

Not I, he replied.