“And truly,” I said, “many other considerations assure me that we were entirely right in our organization of the state, and especially, I think, in the matter of poetry.” “What about it?” he said. “In refusing to admit at all so much of it as is imitative; for that it is certainly not to be received is, I think,

still more plainly apparent now that we have distinguished the several parts of the soul.” “What do you mean?” “Why, between ourselves—for you will not betray me to the tragic poets and all other imitators—that kind of art seems to be a corruption of the mind of all listeners who do not possess, as an antidote a knowledge of its real nature.” “What is your idea in saying this?” he said. “I must speak out,” I said, “though a certain love and reverence for Homer that has possessed me from a boy would stay me from speaking.

For he appears to have been the first teacher and beginner of all these beauties of tragedy. Yet all the same we must not honor a man above truth, but, as I say, speak our minds.” “By all means,” he said. “Listen, then, or rather, answer my question.” “Ask it,” he said. “Could you tell me in general what imitation is? For neither do I myself quite apprehend what it would be at.” “It is likely, then,” he said, “that I should apprehend!”

Socrates “It would be nothing strange,” said I, “since it often happens

Socrates that the dimmer vision sees things in advance of the keener.” “That is so,” he said; “but in your presence I could not even be eager to try to state anything that appears to me, but do you yourself consider it.” “Shall we, then, start the inquiry at this point by our customary procedure? We are in the habit, I take it, of positing a single idea or form in the case of the various multiplicities to which we give the same name. Do you not understand?” “I do.” “In the present case, then, let us take any multiplicity you please;

Socrates for example, there are many couches and tables.” “Of course.” “But these utensils imply, I suppose, only two ideas or forms, one of a couch and one of a table.” “Yes.” “And are we not also in the habit of saying that the craftsman who produces either of them fixes his eyes on the idea or form, and so makes in the one case the couches and in the other the tables that we use, and similarly of other things? For surely no craftsman makes the idea itself. How could he?” “By no means.” “But now consider

Socrates what name you would give to this craftsman.” “What one?” “Him who makes all the things that all handicraftsmen severally produce.” “A truly clever and wondrous man you tell of.” “Ah, but wait, and you will say so indeed, for this same handicraftsman is not only able to make all implements, but he produces all plants and animals, including himself, and thereto earth and heaven and the gods and all things in heaven and in Hades under the earth.” “A most marvellous sophist,”

Socrates he said. “Are you incredulous?” said I. “Tell me, do you deny altogether the possibility of such a craftsman, or do you admit that in a sense there could be such a creator of all these things, and in another sense not? Or do you not perceive that you yourself would be able to make all these things in a way?” “And in what way, I ask you,” he said. “There is no difficulty,” said I, “but it is something that the craftsman can make everywhere and quickly. You could do it most quickly if you should choose to take a mirror and carry it about everywhere.

Socrates You will speedily produce the sun and all the things in the sky, and speedily the earth and yourself and the other animals and implements and plants and all the objects of which we just now spoke.” “Yes,” he said, “the appearance of them, but not the reality and the truth.” “Excellent,” said I, “and you come to the aid of the argument opportunely. For I take it that the painter too belongs to this class of producers, does he not?” “Of course.” “But you will say, I suppose, that his creations are not real and true. And yet, after a fashion, the painter too makes a couch, does he not?” “Yes,” he said, “the appearance of one, he too.”

“What of the cabinet-maker? Were you not just now saying that he does not make the idea or form which we say is the real couch, the couch in itself, but only some particular couch?” “Yes, I was.” “Then if he does not make that which really is, he could not be said to make real being but something that resembles real being but is not that. But if anyone should say that being in the complete sense belongs to the work of the cabinet-maker or to that of any other handicraftsman, it seems that he would say what is not true.” “That would be the view,” he said, “of those who are versed in this kind of reasoning.” “We must not be surprised, then, if this too is only a dim adumbration in comparison with reality.”

“No, we must not.” “Shall we, then, use these very examples in our quest for the true nature of this imitator?” “If you please,” he said. “We get, then, these three couches, one, that in nature which, I take it, we would say that God produces, or who else?” “No one, I think.” “And then there was one which the carpenter made.” “Yes,” he said. “And one which the painter. Is not that so?” “So be it.” “The painter, then, the cabinet-maker, and God, there are these three presiding over three kinds of couches.” “Yes,three.”

“Now God,whether because he so willed or because some compulsion was laid upon him not to make more than one couch in nature, so wrought and created one only, the couch which really and in itself is. But two or more such were never created by God and never will come into being.” “How so?” he said. “Because,” said I, “if he should make only two, there would again appear one of which they both would possess the form or idea, and that would be the couch that really is in and of itself, and not the other two.” “Right,” he said. “God, then, I take it, knowing this and wishing

to be the real author of the couch that has real being and not of some particular couch, nor yet a particular cabinet-maker, produced it in nature unique.” “So it seems.” “Shall we, then, call him its true and natural begetter, or something of the kind?” “That would certainly be right,” he said, “since it is by and in nature that he has made this and all other things.” “And what of the carpenter? Shall we not call him the creator of a couch?” “Yes.” “Shall we also say that the painter is the creator and maker of that sort of thing?” “By no means.” “What will you say he is in relation to the couch?”

“This,” said he, “seems to me the most reasonable designation for him, that he is the imitator of the thing which those others produce.” “Very good,” said I; “the producer of the product three removes from nature you call the imitator?” “By all means,” he said. “This, then, will apply to the maker of tragedies also, if he is an imitator and is in his nature three removes from the king and the truth, as are all other imitators.” “It would seem so.”

Socrates “We are in agreement, then, about the imitator.

Socrates But tell me now this about the painter. Do you think that what he tries to imitate is in each case that thing itself in nature or the works of the craftsmen?” “The works of the craftsmen,” he said. “Is it the reality of them or the appearance? Define that further point.” “What do you mean?” he said. “This: Does a couch differ from itself according as you view it from the side or the front or in any other way? Or does it differ not at all in fact though it appears different, and so of other things?” “That is the way of it,” he said: “it appears other but differs not at all.”

Socrates “Consider, then, this very point. To which is painting directed in every case, to the imitation of reality as it is or of appearance as it appears? Is it an imitation of a phantasm or of the truth?” “Of a phantasm,” he said. “Then the mimetic art is far removed from truth, and this, it seems, is the reason why it can produce everything, because it touches or lays hold of only a small part of the object and that a phantom; as, for example, a painter, we say, will paint us a cobbler, a carpenter, and other craftsmen,

Socrates though he himself has no expertness in any of these arts, but nevertheless if he were a good painter, by exhibiting at a distance his picture of a carpenter he would deceive children and foolish men, and make them believe it to be a real carpenter.” “Why not?” “But for all that, my friend, this, I take it, is what we ought to bear in mind in all such cases: When anyone reports to us of someone, that he has met a man who knows all the crafts and everything else that men severally know,

Socrates and that there is nothing that he does not know more exactly than anybody else, our tacit rejoinder must be that he is a simple fellow, who apparently has met some magician or sleight-of-hand man and imitator and has been deceived by him into the belief that he is all-wise, because of his own inability to put to the proof and distinguish knowledge, ignorance and imitation.” “Most true,” he said.

“Then,” said I, “have we not next to scrutinize tragedy and its leader Homer, since some people tell us that these poets know all the arts

and all things human pertaining to virtue and vice, and all things divine? For the good poet, if he is to poetize things rightly, must, they argue, create with knowledge or else be unable to create.”