Socrates “and when he had thus spoken the others were of reverent mind and approved, but Agamemnon was angry and bade him depart and not come again lest the scepter and the fillets of the god should not avail him. And ere his daughter should be released, he said, she would grow old in Argos with himself, and he ordered him to be off and not vex him if he wished to get home safe. 394a And the old man on hearing this was frightened and departed in silence, and having gone apart from the camp he prayed at length to Apollo, invoking the appellations of the god, and reminding him of and asking requital for any of his gifts that had found favor whether in the building of temples or the sacrifice of victims. In return for these things he prayed that the Achaeans should suffer for his tears by the god’s shafts. It is in this way, my dear fellow,” I said, “that 394b without imitation simple narration results.” “I understand,” he said.

“Understand then,” said I, “that the opposite of this arises when one removes the words of the poet between and leaves the alternation of speeches.” “This too I understand,” he said, “—it is what happens in tragedy.” “You have conceived me most rightly,” I said, “and now I think I can make plain to you what I was unable to before, that there is one kind of poetry and tale-telling which works wholly through imitation, 394c as you remarked, tragedy and comedy; and another which employs the recital of the poet himself, best exemplified, I presume, in the dithyramb¹; and there is again that which employs both, in epic poetry and in many other places, if you apprehend me.” “I understand now,” he said, “what you then meant.” “Recall then also the preceding statement that we were done with the “what” of speech and still had to consider the ’how.’” “I remember.” 394d “What I meant then was just this, that we must reach a decision whether we are to suffer our poets to narrate as imitators or in part as imitators and in part not, and what sort of things in each case, or not allow them to imitate² at all.” “I divine,” he said, “that you are considering whether we shall admit tragedy and comedy into our city or not.” “Perhaps,” said I, “and perhaps even more than that.³ For I certainly do not yet know myself, but whithersoever the wind, as it were, of the argument blows,⁴ there lies our course.” 394e “Well said,” he replied. “This then, Adeimantus, is the point we must keep in view, do we wish our guardians to be good mimics or not? Or is this also a consequence of what we said before, that each one could practise well only one pursuit and not many, but if he attempted the latter, dabbling in many things, he would fail of distinction in all?” “Of course it is.” “And does not the same rule hold for imitation, that the same man is not able to imitate many things well as he can one?” “No, he is not.”

“Still less, then, will he be able to combine 395a the practice of any worthy pursuit with the imitation of many things and the quality of a mimic; since, unless I mistake, the same men cannot practise well at once even the two forms of imitation that appear most nearly akin, as the writing of tragedy and comedy⁵? Did you not just now call these two imitations?” “I did, and you are right in saying that the same men are not able to succeed in both, nor yet to be at once good rhapsodists⁶ and actors.” “True.” “But 395b neither can the same men be actors for tragedies and comedies⁷—and all these are imitations, are they not?” “Yes, imitations.” “And to still smaller coinage⁸ than this, in my opinion, Adeimantus, proceeds the fractioning of human faculty, so as to be incapable of imitating many things or of doing the things themselves of which the imitations are likenesses.” “Most true,” he replied.

“If, then, we are to maintain our original principle, that our guardians, released from all other crafts, 395c are to be expert craftsmen of civic liberty,⁹ and pursue nothing else that does not conduce to this, it would not be fitting for these to do nor yet to imitate anything else. But if they imitate they should from childhood up¹⁰ imitate what is appropriate to them¹¹—men, that is, who are brave, sober, pious, free and all things of that kind; but things unbecoming the free man they should neither do nor be clever at imitating, nor yet any other shameful thing, lest from the imitation 395d they imbibe the reality.¹² Or have you not observed that imitations, if continued from youth far into life, settle down into habits and (second) nature¹³ in the body, the speech, and the thought?” “Yes, indeed,” said he. “We will not then allow our charges, whom we expect to prove good men, being men, to play the parts of women and imitate a woman young or old wrangling with her husband, defying heaven, loudly boasting, fortunate in her own conceit, or involved in misfortune 395e and possessed by grief and lamentation—still less a woman that is sick, in love, or in labor.” “Most certainly not,” he replied. “Nor may they imitate slaves, female and male, doing the offices of slaves.” “No, not that either.”

“Nor yet, as it seems, bad men who are cowards and who do the opposite of the things we just now spoke of, reviling and lampooning one another, speaking foul words in their cups or when sober 396a and in other ways sinning against themselves and others in word and deed after the fashion of such men. And I take it they must not form the habit of likening themselves to madmen either in words nor yet in deeds. For while knowledge they must have¹⁴ both of mad and bad men and women, they must do and imitate nothing of this kind.” “Most true,” he said. “What of this?” I said, “—are they to imitate smiths and other craftsmen or the rowers of triremes and those who call the time to them or other things 396b connected therewith?” “How could they,” he said, “since it will be forbidden them even to pay any attention to such things?” “Well, then, neighing horses¹⁵ and lowing bulls, and the noise of rivers and the roar of the sea and the thunder and everything of that kind—will they imitate these?” “Nay, they have been forbidden,” he said, “to be mad or liken themselves to madmen.” “If, then, I understand your meaning,” said I, “there is a form of diction and narrative in which 396c the really good and true man would narrate anything that he had to say, and another form unlike this to which the man of the opposite birth and breeding would cleave and which he would tell his story.” “What are these forms?” he said. “A man of the right sort, I think, when he comes in the course of his narrative to some word or act of a good man will be willing to impersonate the other in reporting it, and will feel no shame at that kind of mimicry, by preference imitating the good man 396d when he acts steadfastly and sensibly, and less and more reluctantly when he is upset by sickness or love or drunkenness or any other mishap. But when he comes to someone unworthy of himself, he will not wish to liken himself in earnest to one who is inferior,¹⁶ except in the few cases where he is doing something good, but will be embarrassed both because he is unpractised in the mimicry of such characters, and also because he shrinks in distaste from molding and fitting himself the types of baser things. 396e His mind disdains them, unless it be for jest.¹⁷” “Naturally,” he said.

“Then the narrative that he will employ will be the kind that we just now illustrated by the verses of Homer, and his diction will be one that partakes of both, of imitation and simple narration, but there will be a small portion of imitation in a long discourse—or is there nothing in what I say?” “Yes, indeed,¹⁸” he said, “that is the type and pattern of such a speaker.”

“Then,” said I, 397a “the other kind speaker, the more debased he is the less will he shrink from imitating anything and everything. He will think nothing unworthy of himself, so that he will attempt, seriously and in the presence of many,¹⁹ to imitate all things, including those we just now mentioned—claps of thunder, and the noise of wind and hail and axles and pulleys, and the notes of trumpets and flutes and pan-pipes, and the sounds of all instruments, and the cries of dogs, sheep, and birds; and so his style will depend wholly on imitation 397b in voice and gesture, or will contain but a little of pure narration.” “That too follows of necessity,” he said. “These, then,” said I, “were the two types of diction of which I was aking.” “There are those two,” he replied. “Now does not one of the two involve slight variations,²⁰ and if we assign a suitable pitch and rhythm to the diction, is not the result that the right speaker speaks almost on the same note and in one cadence—for the changes are slight—397c and similarly in a rhythm of nearly the same kind?” “Quite so.” “But what of the other type? Does it not require the opposite, every kind of pitch and all rhythms, if it too is to have appropriate expression, since it involves manifold forms of variation?” “Emphatically so.” “And do all poets and speakers hit upon one type or the other of diction or some blend which they combine of both?” 397d “They must,” he said. “What, then,” said I, “are we to do? Shall we admit all of these into the city, or one of the unmixed types, or the mixed type?” “If my vote prevails,” he said, “the unmixed imitator of the good.” “Nay, but the mixed type also is pleasing, Adeimantus, and far most pleasing to boys and their tutors and the great mob is the opposite of your choice.” “Most pleasing it is.” “But perhaps,” said I, “you would affirm it to be ill-suited 397e to our polity, because there is no twofold or manifold man²¹ among us, since every man does one thing.” “It is not suited.” “And is this not the reason why such a city is the only one in which we shall find the cobbler a cobbler and not a pilot in addition to his cobbling, and the farmer a farmer and not a judge added to his farming, and the soldier a soldier and not a money-maker in addition to his soldiery, and so of all the rest?” “True,” he said.²²