Socrates that which is not be known?” “We are sufficiently assured of this, then, even if we should examine it from every point of view, that that which entirely“is” is entirely knowable, and that which in no way “is” is in every way unknowable.” “Most sufficiently.” “Good. If a thing, then, is so conditioned as both to be and not to be, would it not lie between that which absolutely and unqualifiedly is and that which in no way is?” “Between.” “Then if knowledge pertains to that which is and ignorance of necessity to that which is not,

Socrates for that which lies between we must seek for something between nescience and science, if such a thing there be.” “By all means.” “Is there a thing which we call opinion?” “Surely.” “Is it a different faculty from science or the same?” “A different.” “Then opinion is set over one thing and science over another, each by virtue of its own distinctive power or faculty.” “That is so.” “May we say, then, that science is naturally related to that which is, to know that and how that which is is? But rather, before we proceed, I think we must draw the following distinctions.” “What ones?”

“Shall we say that faculties, powers, abilities are a class of entities by virtue of which we and all other things are able to do what we or they are able to do? I mean that sight and hearing, for example, are faculties, if so be that you understand the class or type that I am trying to describe.” “I understand,” he said. “Hear, then, my notion about them. In a faculty I cannot see any color or shape or similar mark such as those on which in many other cases I fix my eyes in discriminating in my thought one thing

from another. But in the case of a faculty I look to one thing only—that to which it is related and what it effects, and it is in this way that I come to call each one of them a faculty, and that which is related to the same thing and accomplishes the same thing I call the same faculty, and that to another I call other. How about you, what is your practice?” “The same,” he said. “To return, then, my friend,” said I, “to science or true knowledge, do you say that it is a faculty and a power,

or in what class do you put it?” “Into this,” he said, “the most potent of all faculties.” “And opinion—shall we assign it to some other class than faculty.” “By no means,” he said, “for that by which we are able to opine is nothing else than the faculty of opinion.” “But not long ago you agreed that science and opinion are not identical.” “How could any rational man affirm the identity of the infallible with the fallible?”

Socrates “Excellent,” said I, “and we are plainly agreed

Socrates that opinion is a different thing from scientific knowledge.” “Yes, different.” “Each of them, then, since it has a different power, is related to a different object.” “Of necessity.” “Science, I presume, to that which is, to know the condition of that which is. But opinion, we say, opines.” “Yes.” “Does it opine the same thing that science knows, and will the knowable and the opinable be identical, or is that impossible?” “Impossible by our admissions,” he said. “If different faculties are naturally related to different objects

Socrates and both opinion and science are faculties, but each different from the other, as we say—these admissions do not leave place for the identity of the knowable and the opinable.” “Then, if that which is is knowable, something other than that which is would be the opinable.” “Something else.” “Does it opine that which is not, or is it impossible even to opine that which is not? Reflect: Does not he who opines bring his opinion to bear upon something or shall we reverse ourselves and say that it is possible to opine, yet opine nothing?” “That is impossible.” “Then he who opines opines some one thing.” “Yes.” “But surely that which is not could not be designated as some one thing, but

Socrates most rightly as nothing at all. To that which is not we of necessity assigned nescience, and to that which is, knowledge.” “Rightly,” he said. “Then neither that which is nor that which is not is the object of opinion.” “It seems not.” “Then opinion would be neither nescience nor knowledge.” “So it seems.” “Is it then a faculty outside of these, exceeding either knowledge in lucidity or ignorance in obscurity?” “It is neither.” “But do you deem opinion something darker than knowledge but brighter than ignorance?” “Much so,” he said. “And does it lie within the boundaries

Socrates of the two?” “Yes.” “Then opinion would be between the two.” “Most assuredly.” “Were we not saying a little while ago that if anything should turn up such that it both is and is not, that sort of thing would lie between that which purely and absolutely is and that which wholly is not, and that the faculty correlated with it would be neither science or nescience, but that which should appear to hold a place correspondingly between nescience and science.” “Right.” “And now there has turned up between these two the thing that we call opinion.” “There has.”

“It would remain, then, as it seems, for us to discover that which partakes of both, of to be and not to be, and that could not be rightly designated either in its exclusive purity; so that, if it shall be discovered, we may justly pronounce it to be the opinable, thus assigning extremes to extremes and the intermediate to the intermediate. Is not that so?” “It is.”

Socrates “This much premised, let him tell me,

Socrates I will say, let him answer me, that good fellow who does not think there is a beautiful in itself or any idea of beauty in itself always remaining the same and unchanged, but who does believe in many beautiful things—the lover of spectacles, I mean, who cannot endure to hear anybody say that the beautiful is one and the just one, and so of other things—and this will be our question: My good fellow, is there any one of these many fair-and-honorable things that will not sometimes appear ugly and base? And of the just things, that will not seem unjust? And of the pious things, that will not seem impious?” “No, it is inevitable,” he said, “that they would appear

Socrates to be both beautiful in a way and ugly, and so with all the other things you asked about.” “And again, do the many double things appear any the less halves than doubles?” “None the less.” “And likewise of the great and the small things, the light and the heavy things—will they admit these predicates any more than their opposites?” “No,” he said, “each of them will always hold of, partake of, both.” “Then is each of these multiples rather than it is not that which one affirms it to be?” “They are like those jesters who palter with us in a double sense at banquets,” he replied, “and resemble the children’s riddle

Socrates about the eunuch and his hitting of the bat—with what and as it sat on what they signify that he struck it. For these things too equivocate, and it is impossible to conceive firmly any one of them to be or not to be or both or neither.” “Do you know what to do with them, then?” said I, “and can you find a better place to put them than that midway between existence or essence and the not-to-be? For we shall surely not discover a darker region than not-being that they should still more not be,

Socrates nor brighter than being that they should still more be.” “Most true,” he said. “We would seem to have found, then, that the many conventions of the many about the fair and honorable and other things are tumbled about in the mid-region between that which is not and that which is in the true and absolute sense.” “We have so found it.” “But we agreed in advance that, if anything of that sort should be discovered, it must be denominated opinable, not knowable, the wanderer between being caught by the faculty that is betwixt and between.” “We did.” “We shall affirm, then, that those who view many beautiful things

Socrates but do not see the beautiful itself and are unable to follow another’s guidance to it, and many just things, but not justice itself, and so in all cases—we shall say that such men have opinions about all things, but know nothing of the things they opine.” “Of necessity.” “And, on the other hand, what of those who contemplate the very things themselves in each case, ever remaining the same and unchanged—shall we not say that they know and do not merely opine?” “That, too, necessarily follows.”

“Shall we not also say that the one welcomes to his thought and loves the things

Socrates subject to knowledge and the other those to opinion? Do we not remember that we said that those loved and regarded tones and beautiful colours and the like, but they could not endure the notion of the reality of the beautiful itself?” “We do remember.” “Shall we then offend their ears if we call them doxophilists rather than philosophers and will they be very angry if we so speak?” “Not if they heed my counsel,” he said, “for to be angry with truth is not lawful.” “Then to those who in each and every kind welcome the true being, lovers of wisdom and not lovers of opinion is the name we must give.” “By all means.”