Phaedo “Where then, Socrates,” said he, “shall we find a good singer of such charms, since you are leaving us?”

“Hellas, Cebes,” he replied, “is a large country, in which there are many good men, and there are many foreign peoples also. You ought to search through all of them in quest of such a charmer, sparing neither money nor toil, for there is no greater need for which you could spend your money. And you must seek among yourselves, too, for perhaps you would hardly find others better able to do this than you.”

“That,” said Cebes, “shall be done. But let us return to the point where we left off,

if you are willing.”

“Oh, I am willing, of course.”

“Good,” said he.

“Well then,” said Socrates, “must we not ask ourselves some such question as this? What kind of thing naturally suffers dispersion, and for what kind of thing might we naturally fear it, and again what kind of thing is not liable to it? And after this must we not inquire to which class the soul belongs and base our hopes or fears for our souls upon the answers to these questions?”

“You are quite right,” he replied.

“Now is not that which is compounded

and composite naturally liable to be decomposed, in the same way in which it was compounded? And if anything is uncompounded is not that, if anything, naturally unlikely to be decomposed?”

“I think,” said Cebes, “that is true.”

“Then it is most probable that things which are always the same and unchanging are the uncompounded things and the things that are changing and never the same are the composite things?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Let us then,” said he, “turn to what we were discussing before.

Is the absolute essence, which we in our dialectic process of question and answer call true being, always the same or is it liable to change? Absolute equality, absolute beauty, any absolute existence, true being—do they ever admit of any change whatsoever? Or does each absolute essence, since it is uniform and exists by itself, remain the same and never in any way admit of any change?”

“It must,” said Cebes, “necessarily remain the same,

Socrates.”

“But how about the many things, for example, men, or horses, or cloaks, or any other such things, which bear the same names as the absolute essences and are called beautiful or equal or the like? Are they always the same? Or are they, in direct opposition to the essences, constantly changing in themselves, unlike each other, and, so to speak, never the same?”

“The latter,” said Cebes; “they are never the same.”

Phaedo Phaedo.

Phaedo “And you can see these and touch them and perceive them by the other senses, whereas the things which are always the same can be grasped only by the reason, and are invisible and not to be seen?”

“Certainly,” said he, “that is true.”

“Now,” said he, “shall we assume two kinds of existences, one visible, the other invisible?”

“Let us assume them,” said Cebes.

“And that the invisible is always the same and the visible constantly changing?”

“Let us assume that also,” said he.

“Well then,” said Socrates, “are we not made up of two parts, body and soul?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Now to which class should we say the body is more similar and more closely akin?”

“To the visible,” said he; “that is clear to everyone.”

“And the soul? Is it visible or invisible?”

“Invisible, to man, at least, Socrates.”

“But we call things visible and invisible with reference to human vision, do we not?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Then what do we say about the soul? Can it be seen or not?”

“It cannot be seen.”

“Then it is invisible?”

“Yes.”

“Then the soul is more like the invisible than the body is,

and the body more like the visible.”

“Necessarily, Socrates.”

“Now we have also been saying for a long time, have we not, that, when the soul makes use of the body for any inquiry, either through seeing or hearing or any of the other senses—for inquiry through the body means inquiry through the senses,—then it is dragged by the body to things which never remain the same, and it wanders about and is confused and dizzy like a drunken man because it lays hold upon such things?”

“Certainly.”

“But when the soul

inquires alone by itself, it departs into the realm of the pure, the everlasting, the immortal and the changeless, and being akin to these it dwells always with them whenever it is by itself and is not hindered, and it has rest from its wanderings and remains always the same and unchanging with the changeless, since it is in communion therewith. And this state of the soul is called wisdom. Is it not so?”

“Socrates,” said he, “what you say is perfectly right and true.”

“And now again, in view of what we said before and of what has just been said, to which class do you think

the soul has greater likeness and kinship?”

“I think, Socrates,” said he, “that anyone, even the dullest, would agree, after this argument that the soul is infinitely more like that which is always the same than that which is not.”

“And the body?”

“Is more like the other.”

“Consider, then, the matter in another way.”

Phaedo Phaedo. “When the soul

Phaedo and the body are joined together, nature directs the one to serve and be ruled, and the other to rule and be master. Now this being the case, which seems to you like the divine, and which like the mortal? Or do you not think that the divine is by nature fitted to rule and lead, and the mortal to obey and serve?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Which, then, does the soul resemble?”

“Clearly, Socrates, the soul is like the divine and the body like the mortal.”

“Then see, Cebes, if this is not the conclusion from all that we have said,

that the soul is most like the divine and immortal and intellectual and uniform and indissoluble and ever unchanging, and the body, on the contrary, most like the human and mortal and multiform and unintellectual and dissoluble and ever changing. Can we say anything, my dear Cebes, to show that this is not so?”

“No, we cannot.”

“Well then, since this is the case, is it not natural for the body to meet with speedy dissolution and for the soul, on the contrary, to be entirely indissoluble, or nearly so?”

“Of course.”

“Observe,” he went on, “that when a man dies, the visible part of him, the body, which lies in the visible world and which we call the corpse, which is naturally subject to dissolution and decomposition, does not undergo these processes at once, but remains for a considerable time, and even for a very long time, if death takes place when the body is in good condition, and at a favorable time of the year. For when the body is shrunk and embalmed, as is done in Egypt, it remains almost entire for an incalculable time. And even if the body decay,

some parts of it, such as the bones and sinews and all that, are, so to speak, indestructible. Is not that true?”

“Yes.”

“But the soul, the invisible, which departs into another place which is, like itself, noble and pure and invisible, to the realm of the god of the other world in truth, to the good and wise god, whither, if God will, my soul is soon to go,—is this soul, which has such qualities and such a nature, straightway scattered and destroyed when it departs from the body, as most men say?

Far from it, dear Cebes and Simmias, but the truth is much rather this—if it departs pure, dragging with it nothing of the body, because it never willingly associated with the body in life, but avoided it and gathered itself into itself alone, since this has always been its constant study—but this means nothing else than that it pursued philosophy rightly and

really practiced being in a state of death: or is not this the practice of death?”

Phaedo Phaedo.

“By all means.”

“Then if it is in such a condition, it goes away into that which is like itself, into the invisible, divine, immortal, and wise, and when it arrives there it is happy, freed from error and folly and fear and fierce loves and all the other human ills, and as the initiated say, lives in truth through all after time with the gods. Is this our belief, Cebes, or not?”

“Assuredly,” said Cebes.

“But, I think,

if when it departs from the body it is defiled and impure, because it was always with the body and cared for it and loved it and was fascinated by it and its desires and pleasures, so that it thought nothing was true except the corporeal, which one can touch and see and drink and eat and employ in the pleasures of love, and if it is accustomed to hate and fear and avoid that which is shadowy and invisible to the eyes but is intelligible and tangible to philosophy—do you think a soul in this condition

will depart pure and uncontaminated?”

“By no means,” said he.

“But it will be interpenetrated, I suppose, with the corporeal which intercourse and communion with the body have made a part of its nature because the body has been its constant companion and the object of its care?”

“Certainly.”

“And, my friend, we must believe that the corporeal is burdensome and heavy and earthly and visible. And such a soul is weighed down by this and is dragged back into the visible world, through fear of the invisible and of the other world, and so,

as they say, it flits about the monuments and the tombs, where shadowy shapes of souls have been seen, figures of those souls which were not set free in purity but retain something of the visible; and this is why they are seen.”

“That is likely, Socrates.”

“It is likely, Cebes. And it is likely that those are not the souls of the good, but those of the base, which are compelled to flit about such places as a punishment for their former evil mode of life. And they flit about

until through the desire of the corporeal which clings to them they are again imprisoned in a body. And they are likely to be imprisoned in natures which correspond to the practices of their former life.”

“What natures do you mean, Socrates?”

“I mean, for example, that those who have indulged in gluttony and violence and drunkenness, and have taken no pains to avoid them, are likely to pass into the bodies of asses and other beasts of that sort.”