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Money problems at the birth of philosophy

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Money problems at the birth of philosophy

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Content Copyright 2022 John Kelleher Money Problems at the Birth of Philosophy by Jack Kelleher A Dissertation Presented to the Faculty of the USC Graduate School University of Southern California In Partial Fulfilment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy (CLASSICS) August 2022 ii Dedication Για την Κάτια iii Acknowledgments Many people and institutions have helped me to complete this work. It is my pleasure to acknowledge their contributions here. Firstly, I would like to thank the members of my committee. My supervisor, Greg Thalmann, has always been an attentive reader who cared for his students’ work. My thanks go to him for his professionalism, attention to detail, and support at every stage of this project’s development. Peggy Kamuf has also been there since the inception of this dissertation. Her insight, support, and guidance has been indispensable throughout my time at USC. I also thank Susan Lape, whose advice has enriched this project, and Phiroze Vasunia, who has provided me with help and guidance since I was an MA student at University College London. I thank the Classics Department at USC for providing a nurturing environment in which to complete my dissertation. Tony Boyle, Vincent Farenga, and Claudia Moatti have been valued interlocutors and guides since the beginning. Danny Richter stepped up at the last minute to join my Prospectus Committee at a sad time for the department. Christelle Fischer-Bovet has always been a helpful point of contact and model professional. I thank her, Ann Marie Yasin, and Ryan Prijic for their roles in ensuring that I received financial support when stuck in London and unable to fulfil my duties as a teaching assistant during the pandemic. Special thanks go to my friend and teacher Ronald Mendoza-de Jesus. This dissertation grew largely out of our conversations together. It owes much to his patience, kindness, and breadth of learning. iv My gratitude also goes to my fellow graduate students at USC. In particular, I thank Matteo Barbiero, Anastasia Starovoitova, Harry Strawson, Christian Flow, Josh Allbright, Deirdre Klokow, Madeline Thayer, Lexi Whalen-Muse, and Faith McFadden for giving me helpful feedback on various parts of this work. Friends and colleagues from UCL have also given advice at various points of this project’s development. I thank Peter Agócs for his directions at the beginning of my research, and Matthew Ward for his notes and suggestions for my fourth chapter. I thank my tutors Stephen Heyworth and Peter Thonemann at Wadham College, Oxford, who inspired me and many other undergraduates to pursue further study in the Classics, and my teacher Shomit Dutta for his continued friendship and guidance. My gratitude also goes to Dr Dylan Ramos for his support during my time in LA, and to the many friends that I have met there. I thank my family for their constant love, and the Mandaltsi family, who have treated me as their own. And finally, I thank Katia, without whom, nothing. v Table of Contents Dedication ................................................................................................................................. ii Acknowledgments.................................................................................................................... iii Abstract ................................................................................................................................... vii Introduction: Economy and Philosophy..................................................................................... 1 Literature review ...............................................................................................................................10 The structure of the argument ...........................................................................................................13 Chapter One: Gift and Economy in Plato’s Protagoras .......................................................... 17 The origins of philosophy..................................................................................................................21 Interpreting sophistēs in Plato’s Protagoras .....................................................................................43 Sophistai and philosophoi in the Apology .........................................................................................49 Sophistai in the Hippias Major .........................................................................................................55 Philosophoi and sophistai in Plato’s Republic ..................................................................................63 Monetary exchange in the Laws ........................................................................................................67 Philosophos and sophistēs in the Cratylus ........................................................................................79 Chapter Two: The Politics of Philosophy ................................................................................ 83 Sophistai in Plato’s Meno ..................................................................................................................91 Philosophoi and sophistai in Xenophon’s Cynegeticus ..................................................................103 Philosophoi and sophistai in Aristotle ............................................................................................110 Commodity-exchange and gift-exchange in Xenophon’s Memorabilia .........................................113 Sophistai and philosophoi in fourth-century oratory .......................................................................123 Phobic discourses vs. discourses of contempt .................................................................................133 vi Conclusion .......................................................................................................................................135 Chapter Three: Exchange, Being, and Otherness in the Sophist............................................ 138 The man with no name ....................................................................................................................140 The analysis of the angler and the first six definitions of the sophistēs ..........................................149 The metaphor of the painter ............................................................................................................154 The parricide of Parmenides............................................................................................................160 The science of free men...................................................................................................................166 Being and otherness.........................................................................................................................172 The double science ..........................................................................................................................185 Chapter Four: Money on the Mind in Plato’s Republic ......................................................... 196 Exchange in Plato’s Republic ..........................................................................................................198 Material wealth in the Republic.......................................................................................................210 Trade in the Republic ......................................................................................................................223 Money and the Form of the Good ...................................................................................................232 The Divided Line.............................................................................................................................237 Conclusion .......................................................................................................................................245 Conclusion: Counting the Change ......................................................................................... 246 Bibliography .......................................................................................................................... 256 vii Abstract Money Problems at the Birth of Philosophy argues that the economic is implicated in the philosophical. It explores notions taken from the realm of the economy in the works of Plato and reveals the impact of the economic on some of Plato’s most influential ideas. I begin from the Protagoras, an early dialogue that was fundamental to the later distinction between sophist and philosopher. I then account for the early reception of this distinction with reference to ancient Greek politics. After this, I show how the political context of ancient Greece can help us to understand aspects of the Sophist, before making the case that Plato’s politics are implicated in his ontology. Finally, I reveal Plato’s secret dependence on economic notions for developing some of his more abstract ideas in the Republic. Money Problems at the Birth of Philosophy thus re-evaluates the character of the relationship between the economical and the philosophical. In the process, it provides a new perspective on the history of philosophy. 1 Introduction: Economy and Philosophy ‘… the feeling of guilt, of personal obligation, had its origin, as we saw in the oldest and most primitive personal relationship, that between buyer and seller, creditor and debtor: it was here that one person first encountered another person, that one person first measured himself against another. No grade of civilisation, however low, has yet been discovered in which something of this relationship has not been noticeable. Setting prices, determining values, contriving equivalences, exchanging- these preoccupied the earliest thinking of man to so great an extent that in a certain sense they are what thinking is (das Denken ist): here it was that the oldest kind of astuteness developed; here likewise, we may suppose, did human pride, the feeling of superiority in relation to other animals, have its first beginnings. Perhaps our word “man” (manas) still expresses something of precisely this feeling of self-satisfaction: man designated himself as the creature that measures values, evaluates and measures, as the “valuating animal as such”.’ Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals. The passage that forms the epigraph of this dissertation comes from midway through Friedrich Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morals. It has provoked readers ever since its publication in 1887. The anthropologist David Graeber recently dismissed it as ‘a game’- one ‘played entirely within the boundaries of bourgeois thought’, and with ‘nothing to say to anything that lies beyond that’ (Graeber 2011, 79). Graeber was no doubt being a little unjust. I think Nietzsche’s insights still provide much food for thought. In what sense can one say that these economic procedures- setting prices, determining values, contriving equivalences, and exchanging- are what ‘thinking’ (das Denken) is? This is the question that will guide my reflections in the following chapters. *** 2 Let us begin with Plato’s Phaedo. This dialogue- supposedly one of the ‘middle’ dialogues 1 - recounts a conversation between Socrates and his friends Simmias, Cebes, Phaedo, Apollodorus, and Crito on the eve of Socrates’ execution by the Athenian state. 2 Socrates’ friends have been struck by his serenity in the face of death and by his suggestion that a ‘philosopher’ (φιλόσοφος, Pl. Phd. 61d) should wish to follow the dying. Socrates explains that death is nothing but the soul’s separation from the body and that the philosopher should devote himself to the desires of the soul, rather than those of the body. On his account, the desires of the body hindered the satisfaction of the soul’s desire for truth: thus, the philosopher would not fear the body’s loss in death, since it would allow the soul to seek the satisfaction of its desires alone. This enables Socrates to draw a further inference: οὐκοῦν ἱκανόν σοι τεκμήριον, ἔφη, τοῦτο ἀνδρός, ὃν ἂν ἴδῃς ἀγανακτοῦντα μέλλοντα ἀποθανεῖσθαι, ὅτι οὐκ ἄρ᾽ ἦν φιλόσοφος ἀλλά τις φιλοσώματος; ὁ αὐτὸς δέ που οὗτος τυγχάνει ὢν καὶ φιλοχρήματος καὶ φιλότιμος, ἤτοι τὰ ἕτερα τούτων ἢ ἀμφότερα. Pl. Phd. 68b-c ‘Then is it not,’ said Socrates, ‘a sufficient proof, when you see a man troubled because he is going to die, that he was not a lover of wisdom (philosophos), but a lover of the body? And this same man is also a lover of money (philochrēmatos) and of honour, one or both.’ 1 The ‘middle’ dialogues are those which are thought to have been composed during the middle of Plato’s career, and not in its early or late stages. The Phaedo is generally placed amongst the ‘middle’ dialogues because it is not one of the six ‘late’ dialogues- a set of dialogues that are stylometrically similar and said to have been composed late in Plato’s career by ancient sources- but it is also not believed to have been an early work. There is no way of establishing with certainty the dating of the various dialogues, or the order in which they were composed. Fortunately, the dating and order of the dialogues are of little consequence for my argument. For the problems of dating Plato’s works, see Blondell (2002), 11-2; Nails (1992); Thesleff (1982); Howland (1991). 2 In 399 BCE. 3 Socrates’ point seems clear: to be afraid of death is not to be a true lover of wisdom, but a lover of the body, and thus a lover of money or honour. And yet, a little later on, when discussing the proper management of one’s desires, Socrates complicates that picture. He points out that some people who appear to be of sober conduct (σώφρονες) in fact restrain themselves with respect to one desire out of longing for something that is too strong for them to resist. As a result, their supposed temperance (σωφροσύνη) actually stems from a sort of intemperance (ἀκολασία). According to Socrates, truly virtuous people- and philosophoi (‘lovers of wisdom’ or ‘philosophers’), most of all- would not manage their fears and desires thus: ὦ μακάριε Σιμμία, μὴ γὰρ οὐχ αὕτη ᾖ ἡ ὀρθὴ πρὸς ἀρετὴν ἀλλαγή, ἡδονὰς πρὸς ἡδονὰς καὶ λύπας πρὸς λύπας καὶ φόβον πρὸς φόβον καταλλάττεσθαι, καὶ μείζω πρὸς ἐλάττω ὥσπερ νομίσματα, ἀλλ᾽ ᾖ ἐκεῖνο μόνον τὸ νόμισμα ὀρθόν, ἀντὶ οὗ δεῖ πάντα ταῦτα καταλλάττεσθαι, φρόνησις· Pl. Phaed. 69a. My dear Simmias, I suspect that this is not the right way to exchange things for virtue, that changing up (katalattesthai) of pleasures for pleasures, pains for pains, fears for fears, small ones for great and great ones for small, as though they were coins; no, there is, I suggest, only one right sort of coin (monon to nomisma orthon) for which we ought to exchange all these things, and that is intelligence (phronēsis). In these lines, Socrates compares the exchange of one pleasure, pain, or fear for a greater or lesser one to the changing up of coins. 3 He clearly disapproves of this mode of 3 In later Greek, the primary meaning of the verb katallassein is ‘to change money’. It is generally translated as ‘to change one thing for another’ in this passage, but I think that this translation obscures Socrates’ point. Socrates is comparing the changing of one amount of the same thing- whether it be pleasure, pain, or fear- for another amount of that same thing to the changing up of one denomination of money for another. In both cases, the things being exchanged are of the same quality, and differ only in terms of quantity. This nuance is covered 4 exchange, in which like is exchanged for like. But then he immediately envisages intelligence (φρόνησις) as another type of coin. Not only is it another type of coin: it is ‘the only right type of coin’. And all pleasure, pain, or fear ought first to be exchanged for it before one does anything else. Socrates’ rhetoric requires careful parsing. If the first type of transaction that he envisaged was one in which like was exchanged for like, the second involves the exchange of all these things for something that differs from them all: namely, intelligence. It would appear that intelligence was something for which all other things could be exchanged- a kind of universal commodity, as it were. This is no doubt why Socrates compares it to coinage (νόμισμα): for coinage functioned in precisely this way in Socrates’ time (as it does today). But Socrates would have us distinguish sharply between the coinage that is intelligence and ‘real’ coinage: for the former is the only true coin. Socrates explains his thinking further in the lines that follow: καὶ τούτου μὲν πάντα καὶ μετὰ τούτου ὠνούμενά τε καὶ πιπρασκόμενα τῷ ὄντι ᾖ καὶ ἀνδρεία καὶ σωφροσύνη καὶ δικαιοσύνη καὶ συλλήβδην ἀληθὴς ἀρετή, μετὰ φρονήσεως, καὶ προσγιγνομένων καὶ ἀπογιγνομένων καὶ ἡδονῶν καὶ φόβων καὶ τῶν ἄλλων πάντων τῶν τοιούτων· χωριζόμενα δὲ φρονήσεως καὶ ἀλλαττόμενα ἀντὶ ἀλλήλων μὴ σκιαγραφία τις ᾖ ἡ τοιαύτη ἀρετὴ καὶ τῷ ὄντι ἀνδραποδώδης τε καὶ οὐδὲν ὑγιὲς οὐδ᾽ ἀληθὲς ἔχῃ, τὸ δ᾽ ἀληθὲς τῷ ὄντι ᾖ κάθαρσίς τις τῶν τοιούτων πάντων καὶ ἡ σωφροσύνη καὶ ἡ δικαιοσύνη καὶ ἀνδρεία, καὶ αὐτὴ ἡ φρόνησις μὴ καθαρμός τις ᾖ. Pl. Phaed. 69b-c. over when we imagine the type of exchange envisaged here as one of barter. For an interpretation of these lines in terms of barter, see Luce (1944), 62. For an alternative interpretation- one closer to my own- see Bluck (1952). 5 When all these are exchanged for wisdom 4 and are bought and sold through the medium of wisdom, they constitute real courage and temperance and justice and, in a word, true virtue, no matter whether there be a favourable or an adverse balance of pleasures and fears and all such feelings. But to keep these apart from intelligence and merely exchange them for each other results, I fear, in a sort of illusory façade of virtue, veritably fit for slaves, destitute of all sound substance and truth; whereas the true virtue, whether it be of temperance, of justice, or of courage, is in fact a purging of all such things, intelligence itself being a sort of purge (trans. J. V. Luce, with modifications). True virtue, courage, temperance, and justice were thus only attainable if one already possessed intelligence. Without possession of this true coin, one could only discern different quantities of the same thing, and exchange them for one another. And this would result in something that might resemble virtue, but was in fact a mere ‘façade’ of it. For real virtue was only itself if it were purged of any connection to false virtue; and this purification could only be carried out by intelligence, which was itself a kind of purification. Let us consider everything that we have seen in this dialogue. The true philosophos would be someone who disdained the body, money, and honours; however, his intelligence (φρόνησις) would itself be a kind of money. And by means of this coin, the philosophos would discern what was really to be feared or desired or indulged. One might say that Socrates is merely using a ‘metaphor’ when he calls intelligence a ‘coin’. On this reading, the coin would be the ‘vehicle’ whose attributes are ascribed to intelligence, which would be the ‘tenor’- the thing being described in terms of the vehicle. But then what are we to do with the fact that this ‘metaphor’ is taken from the economy- the 4 According to Luce, ‘τούτου depends on ἀλλαττόμενα understood’ (Luce 1944, 61)- hence the translation of τούτου μὲν πάντα as ‘when all these things have been exchanged for wisdom’. For discussion of this line and its construal, see Luce (1944), 61. For a criticism of this construal, see Bluck (1952). 6 very realm which Plato excludes from philosophy? This paradox cannot be explained by the traditional theory of metaphor. To find an answer, we need another approach. I would refer this question to a text that is all about economy, and its opposite: Given Time by Jacques Derrida. Towards the beginning of this text, which was published in English in 1992, Derrida reflects on the notion of ‘economy’ and the ‘logic’ of exchange: What is economy? Among its irreducible predicates or semantic values, economy no doubt includes the values of law (nomos) and of home (oikos, home, property, family, the hearth, the fire indoors). Nomos does not only signify the law in general, but also the law of distribution (nemein), the law of sharing or partition [partage], the law as partition (moira), the given or assigned part, participation. Another sort of tautology already implies the economic within the nomic as such. As soon as there is law, there is partition: as soon as there is nomy, there is economy. Besides the values of law and home, of distribution and partition, economy implies the idea of exchange, of circulation, of return. The figure of the circle is obviously at the center, if that can still be said of a circle. It stands at the center of any problematic of oikonomia, as it does of any economic field: circular exchange, circulation of goods, products, monetary signs or merchandise, amortization of expenditures, revenues, substitution of use values and exchange values. This motif of circulation can lead one to think that the law of economy is the- circular- return to the point of departure, to the origin, also to the home. So one would have to follow the odyssean structure of the economic narrative. Derrida (1992), 6-7. This passage gives us a sense of how expansive the notion of ‘economy’ is. In the paragraph that follows, Derrida explains how he understands its converse- that which he calls, following tradition, ‘the gift’: 7 Now the gift, if there is any, would no doubt be related to economy. One cannot treat the gift, this goes without saying, without treating this relation to economy, even to the money economy. But is not the gift, if there is any, also that which interrupts economy? That which, in suspending economic calculation, no longer gives rise to exchange? That which opens the circle so as to defy reciprocity or symmetry, the common measure, and so as to turn aside the return in view of the no-return? If there is gift, the given of the gift (that which one gives, that which is given, the gift as given thing or as act of donation) must not come back to the giving (let us not already say to the subject, to the donor). It must not circulate, it must not be exchanged, it must not in any case be exhausted, as a gift, by the process of exchange, by the movement of circulation of the circle in the form of return to the point of departure. If the figure of the circle is essential to economics, the gift must remain aneconomic. Not that it remains foreign to the circle, but it must keep a relation of foreignness to the circle, a relation without relation of familiar foreignness. It is perhaps in this sense that the gift is the impossible. Derrida (1992), 7. Derrida here makes a subtle point about the character of the relationship between the gift and the economy. He notes that the gift would not be entirely foreign to circulation and the circle- for the possibility of circulation would be the condition of the gift, and vice versa. But in order for a gift to be a gift, it would have to remain outside of circulation. This is why he says that it would have to ‘keep a relation of foreignness to the circle’. Derrida’s thinking of the ‘gift’ evidently differs from the traditional understanding of the term. The gift, in his thinking, is not something that one could ever recognise as a gift: in order to be a gift, in the strict sense, it would have to escape recognition as such. It could not offer itself to the possibility of circulation or exchange. 8 Derrida’s reflections may lead one to conclude that a consistent discourse on the gift is almost impossible. But, by the same token, one could infer that the economic is necessary for thinking that which is supposedly aneconomic. Any discourse positing a realm beyond economy would then have to invoke figures taken from the economy in order to characterise this realm. 5 This reading of Given Time gives us a means of explaining the paradox that we encountered in the Phaedo. When Socrates calls intelligence ‘the only true coin,’ he suggests that true thinking takes place outside of or beyond the economy. However, he can only do so using a term taken from the economy. Far from being a ‘mere’ metaphor, then, where the link between tenor and vehicle was arbitrary, coinage would be the necessary metaphor for depicting a universal measure of value. This necessity would be programmed, if you will, by the structural relationship implicating the economic in the aneconomic. My dissertation seeks to demonstrate this hypothesis through a reading of several Platonic dialogues. My aim is to underscore the generative power of the economic in the Platonic corpus. I shall argue that the economic is implicated in some of Plato’s most enduring ideas- even the idea of philosophy itself. This dissertation thus seeks to unsettle 5 In this connection, we might consider the anthropologist David Graeber’s recent theoretical work, Debt: the first five-thousand years. Graeber begins with a reflection on the fact that language taken from finance is often used to talk about morality. The term ‘debt’ is itself an example of this phenomenon, since we often use it to describe an obligation that we feel towards someone, rather than a particular sum of money that we owe them. His book asks ‘What precisely does it mean to say that our sense of morality and justice is reduced to the language of a business deal? What does it mean when we reduce moral obligations to debts? What changes when the one turns into the other? And how do we speak about them when our language has been so shaped by the market?’ (Graeber 2011, 13; my italics). Graeber here seems to suggest that moral obligations are different from and superior to debts, and that in referring to a moral obligation as a ‘debt’, one brings an obligation down to the level of a debt. My dissertation is concerned to question the order of precedence that Graeber seems to establish here. 9 traditional assumptions about the origins of this discipline which, according to Plato’s student Aristotle, arose out of wonder alone. 6 I also hope to provide a broader insight into Plato’s thought. For- to anticipate somewhat- Plato does want the gift to be absolutely foreign to exchange. He wants to believe in the possibility of the gift and of ‘pure giving’. Whether he truly believed it is another question entirely, and one that I shall consider throughout the dissertation. How, then, can one explain this desire for the gift on Plato’s part- especially if, as Derrida claims, the gift, when understood in terms of its difference from economy, is impossible? Derrida posits an explanation for a desire of this sort later in Given Time: … if the gift is another name of the impossible, we still think it, we name it, we desire it. We intend it. And this even if or because or to the extent that we never encounter it, we never know it, we never verify it, we never experience it in its present existence or in its phenomenon. The gift itself- we dare not say the gift in itself- will never be confused with the presence of its phenomenon. Perhaps there is nomination, language, thought, desire, or intention only there where there is this movement still for thinking, desiring, naming that which gives itself neither to be known, experienced, nor lived- in the sense in which presence, existence, determination regulate the economy of knowing, experiencing, and living. In this sense one can think, desire, and say only the impossible, according to the measureless measure [mesure sans mesure] of the impossible. If one wants to recapture the proper element of thinking, naming, desiring, it is perhaps according to the measureless measure of this limit that it is possible, possible as relation without relation to the impossible. One can desire, name, think in the proper sense of these words, if there is one, only to the immeasuring extent [dans la mesure démesurante] that one desires, names, thinks still or already, that one still lets announce itself what 6 Ar. Met. A 982b12-17. 10 nevertheless cannot present itself as such to experience, to knowing: in short, here a gift that cannot make itself (a) present [un don qui ne peut pas se faire présent]. Derrida (1992), 29. Even if we never encounter the gift, we can still name it, think it, and desire it. Even if the gift should not be confused with the ‘presence of its phenomenon’, the usage of the term ‘gift’ as a name or noun would make such confusion possible. Derrida even suggests that it is because this confusion is possible that the desire for the gift is possible. In a sense, then, Plato’s desire for the gift is understandable. It is just that the possibility of the gift is considerably more open to question than he would like to think. In the course of my dissertation, I shall often treat Plato’s accounts of giving and exchanging on their own terms. At the same time, I shall show how these accounts problematize themselves. Literature review My thesis reformulates several claims that have recently been put forward in various parts of the academy- all of which link the invention of coinage in ancient Greece to the emergence of philosophy. To my knowledge, this idea was first floated by the French philosopher, Michel Foucault, in a lecture delivered at the Collège de France on the 9 th of December 1970. After observing that Aristotle, in the first sentence of the Metaphysics, had already ruled out the question of why human beings desire to know, Foucault put forth a historical explanation- one that made reference to the rise of coinage in ancient Greece: … behind all this emerges the big question that philosophy has not ceased to conceal precisely inasmuch as its birth may not be entirely foreign to it: can knowledge be sold? Can it, on the one 11 hand, be closed up on itself like the precious object of greed and possession? And, on the other hand, can it enter into the game and circulation of wealth and goods? For if knowledge is a thing we desire, why would it not be a good like others, entering like them into the universality of money? Foucault (2013), 15. For Foucault, the question of the value of knowledge would have created the conditions for the emergence of philosophy as a discipline. I have taken much inspiration from Foucault’s suggestions, though, ultimately, I feel his account raises more questions than it answers. After all, where is the evidence that this question was of concern to the Greeks? 7 Compelling as Foucault’s hypothesis may be, it is ultimately difficult to substantiate. Long after Foucault’s lecture, the comparatist Marc Shell drew a similar link in his reading of early Greek philosophy. On his account, ‘[t]he upsetting confrontation of thought with its own internalization of economic form motivated thought to become the self-critical discourse of philosophy’ (Shell 1982, 2). Shell’s readings remain insightful, though they are often removed from the grain of the text. What is more, Shell does not have much to say on that which would be aneconomic. My own study endeavours to fill this gap. Shell’s works have been cited by a whole range of studies, including Money and the early Greek mind, a book from 2004 by the Classicist Richard Seaford. Seaford went so far as to argue that the rise of coinage ‘was a factor… in a crucial and unprecedented conceptual transformation, by which the Greeks seem closer to us than are any of the sophisticated 7 Plato, for example, does not ask whether knowledge can be sold; instead, he seems to ask whether the knowledge that is sold is really knowledge. For his admission that lessons (μαθήματα) can be sold, see Pl. Prot. 313c. 12 civilisations that preceded them’ (Seaford 2004, 7). Seaford was particularly keen to link the ‘impersonal all-powerful substance’ that was coinage to the theories of the so-called Presocratic philosophers, which often determined that the cosmos was composed of a single substance. Seaford’s argument met with criticism and admiration in equal measures. In a review of Seaford’s book, Thomas Figueira outlined the problems with the contention that changing economic practices brought about this conceptual transformation: … experts in ancient philosophy will protest against the priority given to economic circumstances, while the social historians will have problems with chronology, the degree of penetration of coins into various social settings, and the social dynamics surrounding the interface between elite ideology and popular culture. And a recognition (amply illustrated in these pages) that the "theoretical" culture and the monetary culture rightly belong within the same social matrix does not reduce to the proposition that monetization drove progressive intellectualism. Figueira (2006), 468. To my mind, the idea that money caused this transformation pushes the evidence too far. And yet Seaford did isolate a connection that merited attention. For notions associated with money and exchange do play a fundamental role in the work of Plato, and they do so, most importantly, in the works where Plato- the one who gave philosophy its name- develops his most influential ideas about philosophy. I thus depart from his strong causal argument and look instead to the ways in which money and exchange are used to characterise philosophy in philosophical works. 13 Studies like that of Seaford have encountered difficulties in part because they insist on the fundamental difference between monetary exchange and ‘gift-exchange’. 8 Given Time, on the other hand, encourages us to question the character of the distinction between monetary exchange and ‘gift-exchange’. Rather than seeing them as being completely different from one another, Derrida points to the fact that they are both, ultimately, types of economy. He encourages us to think of monetary exchange and ‘gift-exchange’ together, and understands them both in terms of their difference from the aneconomic ‘gift’. His more capacious notion of economy enables us to avoid some of the problems that come from insisting on the specificity of commodity-exchange. The structure of the argument This dissertation takes off from a specific Platonic work: the Protagoras. The Protagoras is supposed to have been one of Plato’s early dialogues. It is particularly relevant to my project because of the importance it accords to the figure of the trader- a figure defined by his participation in exchange. I shall be particularly interested in Plato’s reflections on the merchant (ἔμπορος) and retail-trader (κάπηλος) at the beginning of the dialogue. We may recall that, in the passage which formed the epigraph to this dissertation, Friedrich Nietzsche claimed that the relationship between buyer and seller was the oldest and most primitive type of human relationship that there was. I take Nietzsche’s point to be that all human relationships bear the character of the relationship between buyer and seller, whether they involve the exchange of goods and services or not. From Nietzsche’s point of view, it would appear that all human beings were, in a sense, traders. But Plato does not want 8 This is why Seaford takes the invention and spread of coinage to be an event of fundamental importance. 14 this to be the case. He wants the trader to be a very specific type of person and trading to be a specific activity. We might, following Nietzsche, protest that Plato has not adequately reflected on the notion of trading, and that the idea of a person who was completely removed from all forms of exchange is a fiction. But this would not explain how Plato was able to invent a notion of this kind. For that, I have had recourse to Jacques Derrida’s ‘logic of the supplement’, which I understand as a particular way of reading metaphors. In ‘Plato’s Pharmacy’, Derrida was able to show how the Plato of the Phaedrus was able, effectively, to invent the notion of a living speech that came before or without writing- a notion of speech that Plato’s Socrates called ‘writing in the soul’ (Pl. Phaedr. 275a). However, he was only able to do so using the supplement of writing. In the same way, I argue that the Plato of the Protagoras was able to invent the notion of a philosopher- the non-mercantile person par excellence. But he was only able to do so using the supplementary notion of a sophist- that is, of a merchant or retailer who sold his lessons for cash. My reading of the Protagoras provides the occasion for a re-evaluation of Plato in light of his historical context. I am particularly interested in showing how the Platonic opposition between philosopher and sophist would have been understood in this context. At the end of my first chapter and throughout the second, I consider the opposition between philosophos and sophistēs as a historical phenomenon, and not merely as an effect of Plato’s oeuvre. I argue that it should not be understood as a reflection of ‘real’ differences in practice or expertise, but as a ‘discursive strategy’ that sought to create distinctions in areas where differences were ‘most awkward or problematic’ (Davidson 1994, n.d. p.4). 9 I compare this 9 Quoted in Kurke (1997), 109. 15 strategy to a similar discourse that arose in Classical Greece- namely, the opposition between two kinds of prostitute: the hetaira and the pornē. My second chapter is thus intended not just as a contribution to the study of Plato, but as a contribution to ancient Greek intellectual history more broadly. It provides a novel perspective on the ‘histories’ of ‘philosophy’ and ‘sophistry’ by interpreting them in light of ancient Greek politics. After laying out my historical account of the philosopher-sophist opposition, I turn in my third chapter to Plato’s late dialogue, the Sophist. I argue that this dialogue must also be interpreted in light of Plato’s Protagoras. My reading of the later dialogue enables us to argue that Plato’s ideological commitments are implicated in his ontological theory- no less than they were in the Protagoras. The first three chapters thus trace the history of the relations between the philosopher and sophist, whilst also linking them to the historical period of which they are a product. My final chapter then returns to the theme with which I began: that of the relation between the philosophical and the economical. I read several important passages from across Plato’s lengthy ‘middle’ dialogue, the Republic, paying particular attention to his use of notions taken from the realm of exchange. I argue that economical notions underlie some of Plato’s most influential and enduring ideas- many of which are developed in this dialogue. My reading of the Republic thus confirms my overarching thesis that the economic is implicated in the philosophical. In my conclusion, I consider a specific image- that of changing money- which occurs in several Platonic dialogues and which would not have been 16 available to authors from the earliest period of Greek history. The dissertation thus ends by reflecting upon the impact of the invention of coinage on Plato’s thought more broadly. 17 Chapter One: Gift and Economy in Plato’s Protagoras Midway through Plato’s Protagoras, there is a passage that has caused some problems for translators. The passage occurs at the beginning of a long speech by the character of Socrates in which he purports to explain the meaning of a poem by Simonides, a poet from the early fifth-century BCE. Socrates begins his explanation by placing the poem in a putative historical context- namely, in the context of the history of philosophy (φιλοσοφία). The term that has posed problems for the translators of the dialogue is sophistēs, the ancient Greek term for a ‘wise man,’ and the term from which the English word ‘sophist’ is derived. I shall leave sophistēs untranslated in my rendering so as to draw attention to the passages in which the word occurs. Here is the beginning of Socrates’ speech: φιλοσοφία γάρ ἐστιν παλαιοτάτη τε καὶ πλείστη τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἐν Κρήτῃ τε καὶ ἐν Λακεδαίμονι, καὶ σοφισταὶ πλεῖστοι γῆς ἐκεῖ εἰσιν· ἀλλ᾽ ἐξαρνοῦνται καὶ σχηματίζονται ἀμαθεῖς εἶναι, ἵνα μὴ κατάδηλοι ὦσιν ὅτι σοφίᾳ τῶν Ἑλλήνων περίεισιν, ὥσπερ οὓς Πρωταγόρας ἔλεγε τοὺς σοφιστάς, ἀλλὰ δοκῶσιν τῷ μάχεσθαι καὶ ἀνδρείᾳ περιεῖναι, ἡγούμενοι, εἰ γνωσθεῖεν ᾧ περίεισιν, πάντας τοῦτο ἀσκήσειν, τὴν σοφίαν. Pl. Prot. 342a-b Now philosophy is of more ancient and abundant growth in Crete and Sparta than in any other part of Greece, and the greatest number of sophistai are in those regions: but the people there deny it and make pretence of ignorance, in order to prevent the discovery that it is by wisdom (sophiai) that they have ascendancy over the rest of the Greeks, like those sophistai of whom Protagoras was speaking; 18 they prefer it to be thought that they owe their superiority to fighting and bravery, and they think that the revelation of its real cause would lead everyone to practise this wisdom (sophian). 342b-c I shall analyse this passage more closely in the pages to come. For now, I want to discuss the particular difficulty that it has posed for translators. In Benjamin Jowett’s translation of the Protagoras, sophistēs is translated as ‘philosopher’ when it is used of the Spartans and Cretans and as ‘Sophist’ when it is used of the sophistai of whom the famous thinker Protagoras is said to have spoken. Jowett seems to have noted that the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans are linked to philosophy. He thus rendered sophistēs as ‘philosopher’ when it was used of them. For Jowett, it was apparently important to distinguish the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans from those of whom Protagoras is said to have spoken. However, no other translator of the dialogue has followed Jowett in this decision- possibly because there is no other passage in Plato where sophistēs seems to mean a ‘philosopher.’ Most translators of the dialogue have instead rendered sophistēs in both instances as ‘sophist.’ They would thus appear to have respected the letter of Plato’s text. The problem of translating sophistēs gives us a vista onto the conceptual issue that I would like to address. Many, if not most, of Plato’s readers have tended to distinguish between sophists and philosophers, and between sophistry and philosophy. The distinction is more often than not treated as an absolute one: as if the concepts of sophistry and philosophy excluded each other, with the result that a sophist could not possibly be a philosopher. Jacques Derrida, on the other hand, has suggested that the boundary between sophistry and philosophy is significantly less stable than Plato might perhaps have liked us to believe. 10 He 10 ‘The front line that is violently inscribed between Platonism and its closest other, in the form of sophistics, is far from being unified, continuous, as if stretched between two homogenous areas. Its design is such that, through a systematic indecision, the parties and the party lines frequently exchange their respective places, imitating the forms and borrowing the paths of the opponent. These permutations are therefore possible, and if 19 points to the overlap between sophistry and philosophy in Plato and the ways in which the two are often difficult to distinguish from one another. These points of overlap encourage us to question the absoluteness of the distinction between sophistry and philosophy and to seek explanations for its genesis. The question of the relationship between sophistry and philosophy leads us back to the passage from the Protagoras. As I have noted, the same term- sophistēs- is variously translated as ‘sophist’ or ‘philosopher.’ These translations seem to suggest that the term sophistēs escapes binary classification in the Protagoras. It seems to harbour both possibilities within itself without being reducible to either of them. The usage of the term sophistēs in the Protagoras would then put the idea of a binary distinction between sophist and philosopher into question. For it itself is simultaneously both of them and neither of them. But the term sophistēs also gives us a different vista on the distinction between sophist and philosopher. After all, if sophistēs is in itself undecidable, why would there have been a need to separate the sophist and the philosopher in the first place? And why do Plato’s own characters in later dialogues maintain that there is a difference between them? An answer to these questions must be provided if we wish to make sense of the supposed philosopher-sophist binary. In my view, the Protagoras itself can provide us with our answers. I shall go through the relevant passages, paying particular attention to Socrates’ account of the origins of philosophy and his ‘history’ of Spartan and Cretan philosophy. Most commentators on the they are obliged to inscribe themselves within some common territory, the dissension no doubt remains internal and casts into absolute shadow some entirely-other of both sophistics and Platonism, some resistance having no common measure with this whole commutation’ (Derrida 1981, 108, with modifications). 20 dialogue have dismissed Socrates’ account as mere ‘banter’ or ‘furious fun.’ 11 They argue that it could not possibly be true, given what we know of Spartan and Cretan society, and assume that Socrates is merely poking fun at his interlocutor, Protagoras, who had given a ‘history’ of his own art earlier in the dialogue. 12 But no commentator, to my knowledge, seems to have interpreted the account in the light of what comes after it. They have thus detached the account from its context in the Protagoras and missed its significance within the dialogue. In the first part of this chapter, I shall discuss Socrates’ account. I shall then argue for an interpretation of that account within the context of the Protagoras. On my reading, the passage makes sense if we understand that it is saying something serious about the morality of exchange. It does so by presenting us with an idealised vision of ‘pure giving’. Socrates may not have been serious when he attributed the origins of philosophy to the Spartans and Cretans, but he seems to have seriously regarded the idea of ‘giving’ as being different from and superior to that of ‘exchanging’. That Socrates should have done so is significant. As Jacques Derrida has shown, there is nothing innocent about the decision to oppose the notion of ‘giving’ to that of ‘exchanging’. 13 This was no less true in ancient Greece at the time of Plato’s writing. I shall 11 Frede (1986), 740; Taylor (1926), 255. 12 Pl. Prot. 316d-317a 13 Derrida demonstrates this through a reading of Marcel Mauss’ essay on The Gift. As Derrida argues, ‘A discourse on the gift, a treatise on the gift, must and can only be part or party in the field it describes, analyses, defines… The theoretical and supposedly constative dimension of an essay on the gift is a priori a piece, only a part, a part and a party, a moment of a performative, prescriptive, and normative operation that gives or takes, indebts itself, gives and takes, refuses to give or accepts to give- or does both at the same time according to a necessity that we will come back to. But in every case, this discursive gesture is from the outset an example of that about which it claims to be speaking. It is part of the whole, it belongs to the whole process, it is part of it even as it claims to designate only an object of that process or a part of a set that would be dominated by its discourse.’ (Derrida 1992, 62). 21 have cause to reflect on the relation of the Protagoras to its particular historical context later in the chapter. But first, I shall turn to the dialogue itself. The origins of philosophy Let us briefly recall the context of this speech. Socrates is at the house of Callias holding a conversation with Protagoras, who was staying there whilst visiting Athens. They have both agreed to discuss a poem by the fifth-century poet Simonides. Though Socrates regarded the poem as one that was well-composed, Protagoras argued that it was not: for the poem seemed to him to contain a contradiction. Protagoras pointed out that, at one point in the poem, the poet Simonides asserted that it was difficult to become a good man, but later on he, Simonides, seemed to criticise Pittacus- one of the Seven Sages- for saying the same thing: namely, that it was hard to be good (χαλεπὸν… ἐσθλὸν/ ἔμμεναι, Pl. Prot. 339b). In Protagoras’ view, this apparent contradiction meant that Simonides’ poem had not been well- composed. 14 He then gave Socrates the opportunity to defend his own favourable interpretation of the poem. After buying himself some time, Socrates suggested that they interpret the poem in terms of its historical context. He began with the curious claim about the origins of philosophy that I quoted above. Philosophy, on Socrates’ telling, would have originated in Sparta and Crete- two of the most austere and militaristic societies in the ancient Greek world. What is more, the greatest number of sophistai were in these places- something that Socrates’ listeners would undoubtedly have been surprised to hear. This tale is not one that 14 Pl. Prot. 339d. 22 any historian would regard as being true. 15 However, as Nicholas Denyer has noted, Protagoras could hardly have protested against Socrates apparently fanciful account: for he had himself spoken earlier of a tradition of sophistai that remained hidden from most other Greeks. 16 At the outset, we should note three things: 1) The Spartan and Cretan sophistai already seem quite different to the sophistai that Socrates himself had described earlier in the dialogue. For Socrates had defined a sophistēs as a ‘merchant’ (ἔμπορος) or ‘retail-trader’ (κάπηλος) who sold lessons, the wares upon which the soul is nourished. 17 But the Spartan and Cretan sophistai do not behave like traders. Where the mercantile sophistai of whom Socrates had spoken would flaunt their wares on the market, the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans keep their wisdom secret so that none of the other Greeks would discover it. They do this, apparently, because the wisdom of the Spartans and Cretans (rather than the martial prowess for which they were famed) is what guaranteed their superiority over the other Greeks. Nevertheless, they do in fact practise wisdom secretively within their communities. This makes the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans seem more concerned with the needs of their communities than they are with private gain. 2) The Spartan and Cretan sophistai are being compared to the sophistai of whom Protagoras had spoken earlier. This comparison will take into account the similarities between them as well as the differences. Thus, we need to recall some of the points of 15 As Beresford puts it, ‘There is a wide consensus that Socrates’ interpretation of the song [of Simonides] is at least largely ironic, and everyone agrees that there are bits of it that are blatantly silly’ (Beresford 2009, 185). Beresford includes the account of the Spartans and Cretans amongst the bits that are ‘blatantly silly’. 16 Pl. Prot. 316d-317a. 17 Pl. Prot. 313c; see Plato Protagoras (2008) 156-7. 23 comparison. Protagoras’ history of the ‘sophistic art’ (τὴν σοφιστικὴν τέχνην, 316d) took the form of a list- one that included some of the most revered names in the Greek world. The poets Homer and Hesiod were listed there, but so was Simonides- the very poet whose work is under discussion here. Protagoras’ precursors in the ‘sophistic art’ are said to have hidden the fact that they were sophistai. They had used their particular arts- poetry, music, or even wrestling- as screens (πρόσχημα, 316e) to hide their true identities as practitioners of the sophistic art. They had done so in order to evade the envy of powerful men in the cities that they visited. 18 But they were not themselves anonymous. The sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans, on the other hand, are not named individuals. They are seemingly embedded within their respective communities. They keep their wisdom secret in order to ensure the superiority of their communities over all of the other Greeks. 3) The temporality of this passage is rather strange and even troubling. Socrates is claiming that philosophy originated in Sparta and Crete, but he also seems to be claiming that their inhabitants are (εἰσίν) still the wisest of the Greeks- as if nothing had changed from the beginning of time until his present day. Socrates’ whole account of the practices of the Spartans and Cretans will be delivered in this ‘eternal’ present tense. 19 To that degree, it resembles a myth, even if he presents it as a historical explanation. From a Derridean perspective, the emphasis on the time of the present would link the account of the Spartans and Cretans to the thought of the gift. 20 18 Pl. Prot. 316e-317a. 19 Derrida emphasises the relation of the present tense to the gift in a reading of a passage from Heidegger’s Being and Time: ‘The relation of the gift to the “present,” in all the senses of this term, also to the presence of the present, will form one of the essential knots in the interlace of this discourse, in its Geflecht [‘weave’], in the knot of that Geflecht of which Heidegger says precisely that the circle is perhaps only a figure or a particular case, an inscribed possibility. That a gift is called a present, that “to give” may also be said “to make a present,” “to give a present” (in French as well as in English, for example), this will not be for us just a verbal clue, a linguistic chance or alea’ (Derrida 1992, 9-10). 20 ‘A gift could be possible, there could be a gift only at the instant an effraction in the circle will have taken place, at the instant all circulation will have been interrupted and on the condition of this instant. What is more, this instant of effraction (of the temporal circle) must no longer be part of time. That is why we said "on the 24 Already, then, we can say that the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans are not like the sophistai that have been described earlier in the dialogue. Socrates will develop the differences between them in the rest of his account. First of all, he described the curious effect that the Spartans had had on those who had imitated them in other cities. He explained that the Spartans had been so successful when it came to keeping their pursuit of philosophy secret that they had even deceived their would-be imitators. Men in other cities would practise their boxing until they got cauliflower ears, spend hours training in the gym, and wear little Spartan capes, but they did not understand that the Spartans held dominion over all of the other Greeks because of their singular devotion to wisdom. The imitators thus appear to have failed at the very task of imitating: as Socrates would put it later, to be a Spartan was to love wisdom (φιλοσοφεῖν) more than it was to dedicate oneself to physical training (φιλογυμναστεῖν). 21 Their imitators seem to have got the wrong end of the stick completely: for they thought that being Spartan meant practising the latter at the expense of the former. According to Socrates, the Spartans’ secret had been kept safe because they had rigorously prevented leaks to the outside world. The Spartans had apparently expelled any foreigners from their city whenever they wanted to consult with their sophistai openly. Though they had been doing so in secret, unbeknownst to the foreigners, they had sometimes grown irritated by the need for secrecy and had conducted periodic expulsions of foreigners (ξενελασίαι) so as to speak freely with their sophistai. As an additional measure, both the condition of this instant." This condition concerns time but does not belong to it, does not pertain to it without being, for all that, more logical than chronological. There would be a gift only at the instant when the paradoxical instant (in the sense in which Kierkegaard says of the paradoxical instant of decision that it is madness) tears time apart. In this sense one would never have the time of a gift. In any case, time, the "present" of the gift, is no longer thinkable as a now, that is, as a present bound up in the temporal synthesis’ (Derrida 1992, 9). 21 Pl. Prot. 342e. 25 Spartans and the Cretans had forbidden their young people to leave their respective cities, so that they would not unlearn (ἀπομανθάνουσιν) any of the things that they had been taught there. The behaviour of the Spartans and Cretans contrasts sharply with that of Socrates’ contemporary Athenians. While the Spartan and Cretan system of education remains closed to outsiders, the Athenians were apparently happy to receive an education from non- Athenians. Towards the beginning of the dialogue, Socrates had described how his young Athenian friend, Hippocrates, was keen for Protagoras- an Abderite- to teach him wisdom. Hippocrates had been willing to spend any amount of money in order to associate with this famous foreigner. 22 He had been reproached by Socrates for his lack of caution. 23 They had then travelled to the house of Callias- the wealthiest man in Athens at the time- in order to meet with Protagoras, Hippias, and Prodicus, all of whom were staying with Callias while they were in Athens. In Socrates’ Athens, then, foreigners seem to have offered their services as teachers to locals. 24 Socrates appears to have preferred the approach adopted by his Spartans and Cretans. A further feature of Spartan and Cretan society, as Socrates tells us, was that their women took pride in their education no less than their men. The gift of wisdom appears to have been common to all Spartans, regardless of their gender or social status. This latter point is suggested by the example that Socrates proffered as evidence that the Spartans were the best educated in philosophy and speech-making: 22 Pl. Prot. 310d-e. 23 Pl. Prot. 313a-b. 24 For historical studies of education in fifth-century Athens, see Guthrie (1971) and Kerferd (1981). 26 εἰ γὰρ ἐθέλει τις Λακεδαιμονίων τῷ φαυλοτάτῳ συγγενέσθαι, τὰ μὲν πολλὰ ἐν τοῖς λόγοις εὑρήσει αὐτὸν φαῦλόν τινα φαινόμενον, ἔπειτα, ὅπου ἂν τύχῃ τῶν λεγομένων, ἐνέβαλεν ῥῆμα ἄξιον λόγου βραχὺ καὶ συνεστραμμένον ὥσπερ δεινὸς ἀκοντιστής, ὥστε φαίνεσθαι τὸν προσδιαλεγόμενον παιδὸς μηδὲν βελτίω. 342d-e If one wishes to converse with even the meanest (phaulotatōi) of the Spartans, one will find at first that he appears to be of little worth (phaulon) with respect to his conversation; then, at some point during the discussion, he will interject, like an expert javelin-thrower, with a brief remark that is terse and worthy of repeating, so that the person with whom he is conversing appears no better than a child. On Socrates’ account, even the meanest of Spartans would be better than any non- Spartan when it came to speaking. His assertion serves to highlight the distinction between Spartan and non-Spartan, which makes all distinctions within the Spartan citizen body pale in significance. After giving his admiring account of the Spartans’ wisdom, Socrates claimed that they had had other non-Spartan admirers as well. Ancient observers, no less than modern ones, had noticed that to be Spartan was to love wisdom (φιλοσοφεῖν) and had adjudged the ability to make terse comments as the mark of a perfectly educated (πεπαιδευμένου) man. Socrates numbered the Seven Sages of Greek tradition among the early admirers of the Spartans: τούτων ἦν καὶ Θαλῆς ὁ Μιλήσιος καὶ Πιττακὸς ὁ Μυτιληναῖος καὶ Βίας ὁ Πριηνεὺς καὶ Σόλων ὁ ἡμέτερος καὶ Κλεόβουλος ὁ Λίνδιος καὶ Μύσων ὁ Χηνεύς, καὶ ἕβδομος ἐν τούτοις ἐλέγετο Λακεδαιμόνιος Χίλων. οὗτοι πάντες ζηλωταὶ καὶ ἐρασταὶ καὶ μαθηταὶ ἦσαν τῆς Λακεδαιμονίων παιδείας· καὶ καταμάθοι ἄν τις αὐτῶν τὴν σοφίαν τοιαύτην οὖσαν, ῥήματα βραχέα ἀξιομνημόνευτα ἑκάστῳ εἰρημένα· οὗτοι καὶ κοινῇ συνελθόντες ἀπαρχὴν τῆς σοφίας 27 ἀνέθεσαν τῷ Ἀπόλλωνι εἰς τὸν νεὼν τὸν ἐν Δελφοῖς, γράψαντες ταῦτα ἃ δὴ πάντες ὑμνοῦσιν, “γνῶθι σαυτόν” καὶ “μηδὲν ἄγαν”. Pl. Prot. 343a-b ‘These men were Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mytilene, Bias of Priene, Solon of our city, Cleobulus of Lindus, Myson of Chen, and, last of the traditional seven, Chilon of Sparta. All these were emulators, lovers, and students of the Spartan education; and one can recognize that character in their wisdom by the short, memorable sayings that were delivered by each one of them; and, having gathered together, they made an offering of their wisdom to Apollo in his temple at Delphi, inscribing there those maxims which everyone hymns: “Know yourself” and “Nothing to excess.”’ The Sages, then, were students of Sparta, even if the vast majority of them were not themselves Spartans. The evidence of this lay in the fact that they were known for their brief, memorable sayings. What is more, the Sages in Socrates’ story appear to be a tightly-knit community: they gather in Delphi together (ξυνελθόντες) and make an offering (ἀπαρχὴ) of their wise sayings to the god Apollo. The aparchai are the ‘first-fruits᾽ or else the hairs cut from an animal’s forehead as preparation for sacrifice. The Sages would then appear to be closely involved in religious ritual. The offerings made by the Sages take the form of written (γράψαντες) phrases. Socrates seems to pick up on Protagoras’ own words when he claims that everyone ‘hymns’ (ὑμνοῦσιν) these phrases. Protagoras had earlier used the verb hymnein of the masses, who, on his telling, uncritically ‘repeat’ (ὑμνοῦσιν) everything that powerful men tell them. 25 Where Protagoras used hymnein in a scornful or disparaging sense, Socrates restores to it its more positive usual sense of ‘to sing’ or ‘to celebrate’. 25 Pl. Prot. 317a. 28 The account of the origins of philosophy thus serves to create an intellectual lineage or tradition: one that began in Sparta and Crete, where it continued, unbeknownst to the rest of the Greek world, and which had been continued by the Seven Sages. Socrates goes on to explain why he has given this mythic-historical account: τοῦ δὴ ἕνεκα ταῦτα λέγω; ὅτι οὗτος ὁ τρόπος ἦν τῶν παλαιῶν τῆς φιλοσοφίας, βραχυλογία τις Λακωνική· καὶ δὴ καὶ τοῦ Πιττακοῦ ἰδίᾳ περιεφέρετο τοῦτο τὸ ῥῆμα ἐγκωμιαζόμενον ὑπὸ τῶν σοφῶν, τὸ “χαλεπὸν ἐσθλὸν ἔμμεναι”. Pl. Prot. 343b Why do I say this? Because that Laconic brevity (brachylogia) was the ancient mode of philosophy. And that saying of Pittacus was passed around in private and celebrated by the wise men (sophōn): namely, the saying that ‘It is hard to be good.’ The Sages would appear to have been united by their common practice of brachylogia (‘short speech’): a form of speech that was characteristic of the Spartans. Socrates goes so far as to identify philosophy with this Spartan brachylogia. He claims that the saying of Pittacus which Simonides quoted was an example of such philosophical brachylogia. It was also something that the Sages seem to have kept to themselves so as to celebrate it as a community. We now see why Socrates has told us about the ‘history’ of philosophy. He was trying to contextualise the saying of Pittacus that Simonides quotes in his poem. But in the course of his explanation, he has linked the notion of philosophy to that of brachylogia- which for him is a mode of conversing by means of brief questions and answers. Earlier in the dialogue, he had contrasted brachylogia with makrologia, which involved making long uninterrupted 29 speeches. 26 Socrates had presented himself as someone who was only capable of conversing in the brief question-and-answer mode known as brachylogia. 27 He had described his interlocutor, Protagoras, as someone who was capable of speaking in both modes. 28 But now, we find that brachylogia is the only mode that Socrates associates with philosophy. He thus associates himself, as a practitioner of brachylogia, with the idea of philosophy. 29 Socrates then brings his mythic-historical account to bear on the interpretation of Simonides’ poem. According to Socrates, Simonides had sought to criticise Pittacus’ saying so as to win a reputation for wisdom for himself: ὁ οὖν Σιμωνίδης, ἅτε φιλότιμος ὢν ἐπὶ σοφίᾳ, ἔγνω ὅτι εἰ καθέλοι τοῦτο τὸ ῥῆμα ὥσπερ εὐδοκιμοῦντα ἀθλητὴν καὶ περιγένοιτο αὐτοῦ, αὐτὸς εὐδοκιμήσει ἐν τοῖς τότε ἀνθρώποις. Pl. Prot. 343c Then Simonides, inasmuch as he was ambitious to have a reputation for wisdom, knew that if he could bring down this saying- as if it were a famous athlete- and thereby overcome it, he would win a reputation for wisdom amongst the men of his time. By presenting Simonides as someone who was hungry for fame, Socrates connects the poet with his interlocutor, Protagoras. Like Socrates’ Simonides, Protagoras was apparently concerned for his own reputation. Earlier in the dialogue, during a discussion of virtue, Socrates tells us how he had asked Protagoras to employ the shorter form of speech, since he, 26 Pl. Prot. 329a-b. 27 Pl. Prot. 335c. This claim is undermined somewhat by Socrates’ speech here, which is as long as the Great Speech delivered by Protagoras earlier in the dialogue (Pl. Prot. 320d-328d). 28 Pl. Prot. 334e-335a. 29 We should also note that, in the view of Alcibiades, Socrates is the supreme practitioner of brachylogia (Pl. Prot. 336b-c). 30 Socrates, was unable to keep up with longer speeches. Socrates had then reported Protagoras’ reply: ὦ Σώκρατες, ἔφη, ἐγὼ πολλοῖς ἤδη εἰς ἀγῶνα λόγων ἀφικόμην ἀνθρώποις, καὶ εἰ τοῦτο ἐποίουν ὃ σὺ κελεύεις, ὡς ὁ ἀντιλέγων ἐκέλευέν με διαλέγεσθαι, οὕτω διελεγόμην, οὐδενὸς ἂν βελτίων ἐφαινόμην οὐδ᾽ ἂν ἐγένετο Πρωταγόρου ὄνομα ἐν τοῖς Ἕλλησιν. Pl. Prot. 335a ‘My dear Socrates,’ he said, ‘I have now entered into contests of words with many men, and if I did what you are telling me to do- namely, to carry out my discussion just as my opponent demanded- then I would not appear to be better than anyone and the name of Protagoras would not have become famous among the Greeks.’ In these lines, Protagoras suggests that the conversation between himself and Socrates is a ‘contest’ (ἀγών). He also links his own fame to his previous victories in such contests. Socrates had then treated the discussion of Simonides’ poem as a kind of competition. After Protagoras had given his own interpretation to rapturous applause from the onlookers, Socrates had become dizzy and befuddled, as if he had received a blow from a master boxer. 30 Simonides too, on Socrates’ account, treated his interpretative encounter with Pittacus’ saying as a competition: for him, the Sage’s saying was like a ‘famous athlete,’ and if he brought it down (καθέλοι), he would prevail over (περιγένοιτο) it and win a reputation for wisdom amongst the men of his time (τοῖς τότε ἀνθρώποις). 30 Pl. Prot. 339e. 31 The agonistic imagery thus serves to connect Simonides to Protagoras, whilst distancing them both from Socrates and the Sages. Socrates finishes his account by surmising Simonides’ intentions: εἰς τοῦτο οὖν τὸ ῥῆμα καὶ τούτου ἕνεκα τούτῳ ἐπιβουλεύων κολοῦσαι αὐτὸ ἅπαν τὸ ᾆσμα πεποίηκεν, ὥς μοι φαίνεται. Pl. Prot. 343c Accordingly, it was against this saying, and with this aim, that he composed the whole poem, so as to covertly abase it- or so it seems to me. Here, Socrates suggests that Simonides wanted to put down (κολοῦσαι) Pittacus’ saying: that is, he wanted to bring it down from its exalted position. Socrates aims to show in the argument that follows that the whole of Simonides’ poem was devoted to this purpose. This is where Socrates’ account of the origins of philosophy ends. Let us consider what has been accomplished so far: 1) Socrates began by comparing the sophistai listed as precursors by Protagoras to the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans. The two types of sophistai were said to be similar in that they were superior in wisdom to all the other Greeks. Socrates also rather disingenuously claimed that both types of sophistai hid their wisdom so as to assure their superiority over the other Greeks. Protagoras of course claimed no such thing in his earlier speech: on his account, the early sophistai had hidden their true identities out of fear of the envy (φθονος) that their wisdom inspired. 31 But even here, at the end of Socrates’ account of the origins of 31 Pl. Prot. 316d-e. 32 philosophy, we begin to see a number of differences between the two traditions of sophistai. Socrates indicates that the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans and their emulators, the Sages, were linked by their shared practice of brachylogia. Simonides- the representative of the Protagorean tradition of sophistai- appears to be an outsider to the Sage tradition. His discourse was lengthy compared to that of Pittacus. This would suggest that he is not a practitioner of brachylogia- which would apparently make him a practitioner of makrologia. 32 We may thus begin to see a separation between those who pursued brachylogia alone and those who diverged from this path by dabbling in makrologia as well. 33 2) We should recall that, at the beginning of the dialogue, Socrates had defined a sophistēs as a trader who sold the wares upon which the soul was nourished. Protagoras, who took monetary payment in exchange for his lessons, would appear to have been a sophistēs of this kind. His alleged precursor, Simonides, was also famed for his participation in commercial transactions: indeed, Greek tradition held that he was the first poet to compose poetry for pay. 34 These two figures, I would suggest, link the whole tradition invoked by Protagoras to exchange and, specifically, to the practice of commodity-exchange. They contrast strikingly with the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans, who do not advertise themselves as purveyors of wisdom and do not appear to receive compensation for their services as teachers. Their disciples, the Sages, also appear to keep a comparatively low profile: they share their sayings amongst themselves (ἰδίαι), for the most part, or give them as offerings to the gods. 32 Since brachylogia and makrologia are binary terms. See Pl. Prot. 329a-b. 33 Protagoras is said to have been an expert at brachylogia and makrologia. Socrates seems concerned to maintain the purity of the tradition of brachylogia. This is why Protagoras and his precursors have been excluded from it. 34 See Bell (1978) for an extensive discussion of this tradition. 33 These points alone are enough to suggest that the Protagorean sophistai and the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans are differentiated according to their respective relations to exchange. Where the Protagorean sophistai participate in exchange- and monetary exchange most of all- the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans appear to avoid it in favour of giving without expectation of return. But the contrast is perhaps even more pointed than that- particularly when we place the Protagoras in its historical context. For, as Leslie Kurke has argued, the politics of early Greece- and especially the politics of the Archaic period (800- 479 BCE), the time before Plato was writing- had centred upon the contrast between monetary exchange and gift-exchange. ‘Gift-exchange’ in this context would generally exclude monetary forms of exchange. As Kurke points out, the Greek economy had centred upon such non-monetary forms of exchange in the period before the invention and dissemination of coinage. Though the polis and its institutions- of which coinage was one- became established across the Greek world by the sixth century BCE, supplanting earlier modes of organisation, the politics of exchange continued well into the fourth century- the time when Plato was writing. Gift-exchange and giving remained important, both symbolically and as social practices. We could thus argue that the Protagorean sophistai and the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans are associated with commodity-exchange and gift-exchange respectively. And indeed, the relationships between the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans and their students could be said to resemble the relationships of reciprocity characteristic of gift-exchange. I would contend that two aspects of their description confirm this identification: a) First of all, the Spartan and Cretan sophistai seem to have circulated their wisdom amongst their fellows without expecting anything in return. Their apparently unmotivated 34 altruism towards their fellow citizens would suggest a relationship characteristic of what Marshal Sahlins called ‘generalised reciprocity,’ which is to say, the kind of relationship that obtains between people who give to each other without expectation of immediate return. 35 As Sahlins notes, this behaviour usually takes place between close kin, and not between distant or non-kin. 36 b) Secondly, the Spartans and Cretans are said to have refused to exchange their wisdom with foreigners. Though they distributed their wisdom freely amongst their fellow Spartans and Cretans, they would go to great lengths to hide the fact that they possessed wisdom from anyone who was not from their city. According to Sahlins, this behaviour is typical of distant kin or ‘non-kin’: … close kin tend to share, to enter into generalized exchanges, and distant and nonkin to deal in equivalents or in guile. Equivalence becomes compulsory in proportion to kinship distances lest relations break off entirely, for with distance there can be little tolerance of gain and loss even as there is little inclination to extend oneself. To non-kin- “other people”, perhaps not even “people”- no quarter must needs be given: the manifest inclination may well be “devil take the hindmost.” Sahlins (1972), 196 The use of guile to deal with non-citizens helps to present the Spartan and Cretan sophistai as people who participate in relationships of ‘generalized reciprocity’ with their fellow-citizens. 37 Their behaviour contrasts starkly with that of the mercantile sophistai, who 35 For a discussion of ‘generalized reciprocity’, see Sahlins (1972), 193-4. 36 Sahlins (1972), 196. 37 We should note at this point that Sahlins’ notion of ‘generalized reciprocity’ still implies exchange, even if Sahlins associates it with the giving of gifts. This could lead us to question the character of Sahlins’ distinctions between ‘generalized reciprocity’, ‘balanced reciprocity’, and ‘negative reciprocity’- all of which seem to be types of exchange. For an elaboration of these notions, see Sahlins (1972), 193-6. 35 associate with anybody who has enough money- regardless of whether they are kin or non- kin. Socrates thus seems to have been imagining some kind of one-way system of giving at work in Sparta and Crete- a system that operates according to the principles of ‘generalized reciprocity’. This system is presented favourably in comparison to the monetary economy that was operating in the Athens of his own day- a point that would support my argument about the political significance of this myth in Plato’s society. But Socrates also seems to have believed that the Seven Sages operated according to the same principles as the Spartans and Cretans. The Sages formed a kind of community in their own right- one that was not based on their affiliation to a particular polis, but on their shared appreciation of wisdom. They are said to have gone down to the temple of Apollo at Delphi together (ξυνελθόντες) to make an offering of their own wise words, and to have circulated sayings such as that of Pittacus amongst themselves (literally ‘privately,’ ἰδίᾳ) in a manner that resembled the distribution of wisdom by the sophistai in Sparta and Crete. They apparently did not discuss their sayings with outsiders like Simonides, but celebrated them on their own. We can thus start to see the outlines of another kind of economy: one that was only available to a select group of people, and which was based on status rather than on one’s possession of money. I propose that this distinction between the two kinds of economy would have had a specific political significance for Plato’s contemporaries. But the political significance is not foregrounded at this point. It is best, in my view, to treat it as an idealised vision of a perfectly closed society: one that was impermeable to outsiders, and which was 36 based upon giving without expectation of return. 38 In these ways, it would differ from a monetary economy, which was in principle open to anyone who had money and in which goods would immediately be exchanged for money. Socrates thus gives us two visions of economy: one monetary and one non-monetary. But in order to see how Socrates envisions the relationship between the two kinds of economy, we must place his account of the Spartans and Cretans in its context within the dialogue. After finishing his account of the origins of philosophy, Socrates went on to explain how Simonides’ whole poem could be taken as a criticism of Pittacus’ saying. He proceeded to analyse great chunks of it- possibly the whole thing- in order to substantiate his claim. 39 After Socrates ended his interpretation of the poem, his speech was met with approval. Hippias then offered to deliver his own peroration about the poem. However, he was cut short by the impetuous young Alcibiades, who recalled the conditions for the previous discussion. As Alcibiades pointed out, Socrates had agreed to discuss the poem with Protagoras if Protagoras agreed to answer Socrates’ questions on the nature of virtue afterwards. After Alcibiades made his interjection, Socrates made his own views on the matter clear: Ἐπιτρέπω μὲν ἔγωγε Πρωταγόρᾳ ὁπότερον αὐτῷ ἥδιον· εἰ δὲ βούλεται, περὶ μὲν ᾀσμάτων τε καὶ ἐπῶν ἐάσωμεν, περὶ δὲ ὧν τὸ πρῶτον ἐγώ σε ἠρώτησα, ὦ Πρωταγόρα, ἡδέως ἂν ἐπὶ τέλος ἔλθοιμι μετὰ σοῦ σκοπούμενος. 347c-d 38 My point here is that Socrates’ depiction of the Spartans and Cretans is an idealising fiction, even though the behaviour of the Spartans and Cretans may evoke relationships of generalized reciprocity. For someone who believes in the absolute difference between giving and exchanging- as Plato and some of his contemporaries undoubtedly did- the Spartans and Cretans would no doubt be associated with the former rather than the latter. 39 For an argument that the Protagoras does contain the whole of Simonides’ poem, see Beresford (2008). 37 For my part, I leave it to Protagoras to do whichever he likes best. But if he does not mind, let us talk no more of poems and verses, but consider the points on which I questioned you at first, Protagoras, and on which I should be glad to reach, with your help, a conclusion. Out of apparent courtesy, Socrates left the choice to Protagoras, even if he himself would have preferred to move on to the discussion of virtue. His manner then became less courteous: καὶ γὰρ δοκεῖ μοι τὸ περὶ ποιήσεως διαλέγεσθαι ὁμοιότατον εἶναι τοῖς συμποσίοις τοῖς τῶν φαύλων καὶ ἀγοραίων ἀνθρώπων. 347c For it seems to me that the discussion of poetry is comparable to the symposia of common folk who belong to the market. Socrates’ comparison here is obviously an unflattering one. By comparing the discussion of poetry to the symposia of low or base men (φαύλοι) who belonged to the agora or marketplace- the main site of trade in Athens- he suggests that it is an activity of little worth. Let us recall that Protagoras had earlier declared that the ability to discuss poetry was the greatest mark of a man’s education. 40 Socrates would then be directly contradicting Protagoras’ earlier comments. Socrates continued his unflattering comparison: 40 Pl. Prot. 338e-339a. 38 καὶ γὰρ οὗτοι, διὰ τὸ μὴ δύνασθαι ἀλλήλοις δι᾽ ἑαυτῶν συνεῖναι ἐν τῷ πότῳ μηδὲ διὰ τῆς ἑαυτῶν φωνῆς καὶ τῶν λόγων τῶν ἑαυτῶν ὑπὸ ἀπαιδευσίας, τιμίας ποιοῦσι τὰς αὐλητρίδας, πολλοῦ μισθούμενοι ἀλλοτρίαν φωνὴν τὴν τῶν αὐλῶν, καὶ διὰ τῆς ἐκείνων φωνῆς ἀλλήλοις σύνεισιν. 374c-d These people, owing to their inability to converse with each other carry over their wine by means of their own voices and discussions- such is their lack of education- place great value on flute-girls by hiring the extraneous voice of the flute at a high price, and carry on their conversations in the midst of its sound. Socrates shifts the image here, comparing the discussion of poetry to a conversation carried on amidst the noise of a flute at a symposium attended by base men. He would thus be comparing the poetry of Simonides- the very poem that they had just discussed- and the discussion of such poetry to the sound of the flute at the symposia of base men. We should note the emphasis on the excessive behaviour of the men of the marketplace. They are said to pay steep prices for flute girls, instead of entertaining themselves with their own conversation. Money is here associated with excess- not with noble generosity, but with fruitless expenditure. Socrates then distinguished the behaviour of the base men from that of their social superiors: ὅπου δὲ καλοὶ κἀγαθοὶ συμπόται καὶ πεπαιδευμένοι εἰσίν, οὐκ ἂν ἴδοις οὔτ᾽ αὐλητρίδας οὔτε ὀρχηστρίδας οὔτε ψαλτρίας, ἀλλὰ αὐτοὺς αὑτοῖς ἱκανοὺς ὄντας συνεῖναι ἄνευ τῶν λήρων τε 39 καὶ παιδιῶν τούτων διὰ τῆς αὑτῶν φωνῆς, λέγοντάς τε καὶ ἀκούοντας ἐν μέρει ἑαυτῶν κοσμίως, κἂν πάνυ πολὺν οἶνον πίωσιν. 347d-e But when the symposiasts are fine and good men (kaloi k’agathoi) and have been well educated, you would not see flute-girls or dancing-girls nor harp-girls, but only them showing their abilities to consort with each other by means of their own voices, without any of these trifles or games, speaking and listening decently in their turn, even if they are drinking lots of wine. I have translated kaloi k’agathoi literally as ‘fine and good men,’ though we should also note that this was the term by which the Greek elite referred to themselves. According to Socrates, noble and educated men had no need for the entertainment that was brought into the symposia of base men. They were frugal where the men of the marketplace were excessive. Kaloi k’agathoi would content themselves with their own conversation, taking turns to speak and to listen. Their conversations would thus have resembled brachylogia as Socrates had first described it: that is, as a mode of speaking where one would ask brief questions and then wait for the answers. 41 It would differ from the discussion of poetry, which would appear to be a kind of makrologia. 42 After describing the conversations of the kaloi k’agathoi, Socrates implored his audience to dismiss the poets from their discussion: οὕτω δὲ καὶ αἱ τοιαίδε συνουσίαι, ἐὰν μὲν λάβωνται ἀνδρῶν οἷοίπερ ἡμῶν οἱ πολλοί φασιν εἶναι, οὐδὲν δέονται ἀλλοτρίας φωνῆς οὐδὲ ποιητῶν, οὓς οὔτε ἀνερέσθαι οἷόν τ᾽ ἐστὶν περὶ 41 See Pl. Prot. 329b. 42 Simonides’ poem, for instance, would seem to be an example of makrologia, particularly when compared to the brachylogia of the Sages. 40 ὧν λέγουσιν, ἐπαγόμενοί τε αὐτοὺς οἱ πολλοὶ ἐν τοῖς λόγοις οἱ μὲν ταῦτά φασιν τὸν ποιητὴν νοεῖν, οἱ δ᾽ ἕτερα, περὶ πράγματος διαλεγόμενοι ὃ ἀδυνατοῦσι ἐξελέγξαι· 347e Thus, a gathering like this of ours, when it includes such men as most of us claim to be, requires no extraneous voices, not even of the poets, whom one cannot ask about the things that they have said; when the masses adduce them in their conversations, some say that the poet thought one thing, while others say he thought another, and they go on discussing a matter which they are not able to determine. Here, Socrates suggests that kaloi k’agathoi have no need to adduce the words of the poets in their discussions. He presents the invocation of poetry as an activity that is characteristic of the masses (οἱ πολλοὶ). For Socrates, it is pointless to invoke the poets in support of one’s own words because one could not ask the poets themselves what they meant. His critique of poetry in this passage thus resembles the critique of writing in the Phaedrus. 43 The Socrates of the Phaedrus argued that written words could not clarify their own meaning. The words of the poets were thus vulnerable to the same criticisms as written words: one could not know more about their respective meanings by asking them questions, and they were available to the ignorant and the knowledgeable alike. 44 Socrates went on to contrast the discussion of poetry with the discussions held by kaloi k’agathoi: ἀλλὰ τὰς μὲν τοιαύτας συνουσίας ἐῶσιν χαίρειν, αὐτοὶ δ᾽ ἑαυτοῖς σύνεισιν δι᾽ ἑαυτῶν, ἐν τοῖς ἑαυτῶν λόγοις πεῖραν ἀλλήλων λαμβάνοντες καὶ διδόντες. 348a 43 Pl. Phdr. 274d-e. 44 For a discussion of this particular criticism of writing in the Phaedrus, see Derrida (1981), 135-7. 41 But men like ourselves say good riddance to this sort of meeting, and associate with each other by means of their own resources, to test each other in their speeches, giving them and receiving them in turn. Socrates envisages a good discussion as a kind of like-for-like exchange where the interlocutors gave as much as they received. The language of ‘giving’ (διδόντες) is significant given that he is talking about the kaloi k’agathoi, who supposedly do not engage in exchange- unlike the men of the marketplace. I say ‘supposedly’ because the back-and- forth of the kaloi k’agathoi is itself a kind of exchange. But we are nevertheless encouraged to associate the kaloi k’agathoi with ‘giving’ and with gift-exchange, and to associate the men of the marketplace with the notion of ‘exchanging’ and with monetary exchange. Thus, the kaloi k’agathoi would resemble the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans and their acolytes, the Sages; the men of the marketplace, on the other hand, would resemble Protagoras, Simonides, and the mercantile sophistai. Socrates makes it clear which people he prefers in the next sentence: τοὺς τοιούτους μοι δοκεῖ χρῆναι μᾶλλον μιμεῖσθαι ἐμέ τε καὶ σέ, καταθεμένους τοὺς ποιητὰς αὐτοὺς δι᾽ ἡμῶν αὐτῶν πρὸς ἀλλήλους τοὺς λόγους ποιεῖσθαι, τῆς ἀληθείας καὶ ἡμῶν αὐτῶν πεῖραν λαμβάνοντας. 348a It seems to me that this is the sort of person that you and I ought rather to imitate: putting the poets aside, let us direct our words towards each other, using our own resources, to make trial of the truth and of ourselves. 42 Socrates presents the kaloi k’agathoi- and, by implication, the Sages and the Spartan and Cretan sophistai- as the example that they should follow in their own discussion. His words amount to an endorsement of brachylogia over makrologia. After making these claims, Socrates went on to ask Protagoras if he would like to take up their earlier discussion on the teachability of virtue from the point at which they had left it. On my reading, the passage above gives us a framework through which to view the account of the Spartans and Cretans and, indeed, the earlier parts of the dialogue. For, in the later speech, Socrates sets up a complex analogy in which he compares the symposia of the base men to the symposia of the noble men. And since analogy, as Michael Naas has put, is ‘the very cornerstone of the Platonic edifice’ (Naas 2018, 52), I shall take a moment to spell out its implications. As the kaloi k’agathoi are to the men of the marketplace, so discussion without the use of poetry- or brachylogia- is to the discussion of poetry or makrologia. The two poles of the analogy are related to each other as the better is related to the worse. But the implications of this analogy extend even further. For if brachylogia and makrologia are related to each other as the better is to the worse, then so are the two types of sophistēs that we met earlier. Thus, the Spartan and Cretan sophistai and their emulators, the Sages, would be to Protagoras, Simonides, and the mercantile sophistai as brachylogia is to makrologia. And the same goes for the two modes of exchange that the two types of sophistēs represent. Thus, giving and gift-exchange would be to exchanging and monetary exchange as the Spartan and Cretan sophistai are to the Protagorean sophistai. Again, the two would be related to each other as the better is related to the worse. I would argue that the analogy here makes it impossible for us to regard the Spartan and Cretan sophistai and their emulators as being compatible with their Protagorean 43 counterparts. 45 Socrates does not value the two kinds of sophistēs equally: instead, he wants the former to be absolutely different from and superior to the latter. Whether the two kinds of sophistai are absolutely different from each other is another question entirely. The answer to this question would depend in large part on one’s interpretation of the term sophistēs. I shall thus turn to the question of how we are to interpret sophistēs in the next section. Interpreting sophistēs in Plato’s Protagoras Let us begin by recalling what Socrates would regard as the proper meaning of the term sophistēs. Towards the beginning of the dialogue, Socrates claimed that a sophistēs was a merchant or retail-trader whose wares were the lessons that he provided. 46 This definition of the term sophistēs firmly associated the sophistai with exchange and, especially, the practice of commodity-exchange. But in the account of the origins of philosophy, Socrates described the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans as people who provided their wisdom to their fellow citizens, but who apparently did not receive anything in return. As I suggested earlier, the Spartan and Cretan circulation of wisdom resembled a vast system of ‘generalized reciprocity’, where the distribution of resources took place without expectation of return and without the use of coinage as a medium of exchange. Since the second type of sophistēs did not exchange his wisdom for something else, he would appear to be different from the first type of sophistēs. I would thus suggest that we understand sophistēs in the Spartan passage as a kind of metaphor. On the four occasions that Socrates uses the term in his description of 45 I thus part ways with Michael Gagarin, who saw the Protagoras as an attempt ‘to establish the basic continuity between Protagorean and Socratic thought’ (Gagarin 1969, 134). I think Plato wants to place Socrates and the values with which he is associated over Protagoras and his associated values, even if his text contains traces of his hesitation. 46 Pl. Prot. 313c. 44 Spartan and Cretan society, sophistēs designates people who participate in a kind of system of one-way giving, and not in an economy where goods are exchanged. Now, Socrates does not regard the two kinds of sophistai as being of equal value. Let us recall the analogy of the two symposia, where Socrates devalued the symposia of the base men in relation to the symposia of the kaloi k’agathoi. Socrates aligned the kaloi k’agathoi with giving, with gift-exchange, and with the Spartan and Cretan sophistai. He then connected the men of the marketplace in the base symposium to exchange, the practice of commodity-exchange, and the mercantile, Protagorean sophistai. He presented the practices of the kaloi k’agathoi as an ideal to be imitated by those who would consider themselves kaloi k’agathoi. The societies of Sparta and Crete, and the practices of their sophistai, thus also function, on my reading, as a kind of ideal to be imitated. Why, then, does Socrates use the same term- sophistēs- to describe those who participated in the despised monetary economy and those who participated in the system of one-way giving- the system of distribution that he does value? The implied negation in the second use of sophistēs- the one describing the Spartan and Cretan sophistai- encourages us to understand the idealised societies of Sparta and Crete, where wisdom was transmitted seamlessly from one generation to the next, in terms derived from that which is not the ideal. That is to say, it encourages us to understand the idealised bestowal of wisdom upon the younger generations in Sparta and Crete in terms of its difference from the exchange of wisdom for cash in Socrates’ Athens. The mercantile sophistai- those who plied their trade in fifth-century Athens- would thus be the ‘supplement’ that allowed Plato to think, name, and describe the ideal transmission of wisdom in the societies of Sparta and Crete- societies 45 where goods supposedly circulated without expectation of return, and without the use of money. The term sophistēs would thus confirm the hypothesis with which I began in my introduction. Plato would have needed the economic notion of a sophistēs- for the sophistēs is, first and foremost, a trader- in order to characterise a realm that was putatively beyond the economy- a realm where wisdom was not sold, but transmitted. The system of ‘pure giving’ would thus be contaminated by its relationship to the economy. The term sophistēs thus allows us to conceive of the relationship between giving and exchanging in a different way to the one put forth by Socrates. Instead of seeing the two as being utterly distinct, we could argue that they are separate but co-implicated. This would be suggested by the fact that Plato uses the term sophistēs to designate those involved in exchange and those who seemed simply to give without receiving in turn. One could argue on these grounds that he needed the former in order to designate the latter. My reading of the Protagoras thus provides us with a vista that could explain much of what we find in the Platonic corpus. On the one hand, Plato wants to value giving and gift- exchange over exchanging and monetary exchange. 47 But on the other hand, his text allows us to reinterpret their relationship as a co-implication, rather than an opposition. That is to say, even if the historical Plato believed that the former was utterly separate from and 47 Plato seems consistently to associate exchange in general with monetary exchange. Even though he recognises that gift-exchange can also be a form of exchange (Pl. Soph. 223c), it has a different valence for him. Thus, in the Sophist, the practitioner of the amatory art (ἡ ἐρωτική τέχνη) is distinguished from the sophistēs because he gives gifts (δῶρα) to those whom he hunts, instead of expecting cash payment from them in exchange for his services (ibid., 222d-223a). Plato thus seems to believe that the giving of gifts is different because it might not result in a return of goods or favours to the giver, while selling one’s services for cash immediately results in a return to the seller. 46 superior to the latter, and even if his text encourages us to conceive of them in that way, the parasitism of terms also allows us to think the relationship between them in a completely different manner. The term sophistēs in the Protagoras remains as a trace of his indecision. This interpretation also helps to account for the origins of the opposition between the ‘sophist’ and his other, who came to be known as the ‘philosopher’. The Protagoras would be the place where this opposition was invented. And if the boundary between the two is unstable, that may be because the one was originally conceptualised in terms of its difference from the other. We should note at this point that the Protagoras is itself a kind of threshold- both in Plato’s corpus and in the history of philosophy. For it makes possible the later opposition between sophist and philosopher; but in the Protagoras itself, the word sophistēs exceeds the philosopher-sophist binary, being older than both these oppositions. That is why I argued that it should not be translated either as ‘sophist’ or ‘philosopher’, but left in its original inscription. Plato’s Protagoras thus raises an interesting historical question. Why should Plato’s Socrates have wanted to posit this distinction between two kinds of sophistai? What possible reason could have motivated this decision- particularly if the two kinds of sophistēs are more closely related than Socrates would have allowed? In my view, the historical context in which Plato wrote the Protagoras may prove instructive. For, as I have argued, the two kinds of sophistēs appear to have been separated along the lines of giving and gift-exchange, on the one hand, and exchange and monetary- 47 exchange on the other, with Plato’s Socrates expressing a preference for the former over the latter. This raises the question of why gift-exchange and those who practised it should be preferable to monetary exchange and those who participated in such transactions. According to Leslie Kurke, this scale of values was common amongst men of high status in early Greece. Kurke pointed out in Coins, Bodies, Games, and Gold that the Greek world before the rise of the polis or city-state was one which a warrior class of aristocrats seems to have dominated. The pre-coinage Greek economy was ‘embedded’ in supposedly ‘non-economic’ institutions such as kinship relations, marriage, religious practices, and indeed, gift-exchange. Then, in the period from c. 800 BCE onwards, the Greek world bore witness to great political upheaval that resulted in the establishment of the egalitarian polis as a mode of social organisation. 48 The rise of the polis was accompanied by the rapid spread of coinage and monetary-exchange throughout the Greek world. Coins, which were often minted by the poleis themselves, came, on Kurke’s reading, to represent the city’s assertion of its own sovereignty, while aristocratic families continued to participate in and uphold the relationships of gift-exchange that had underpinned their previous positions of dominance. Kurke sees the conflict over different forms of exchange as a fundamentally political conflict. On her analysis, ‘the elite opposition to money is not so much economic as political- it is part of a larger project of aristocratic resistance to the encroaching authority of the polis’ (Kurke 1999, 19). She invoked the notion of different ‘transactional orders’ proposed by the anthropologists Jonathan Parry and Maurice Bloch to explain the terms of the debate. For conservative elements within Greek society, and especially amongst the traditional elite, gift- exchange was deemed central to the long-term health of the community; monetary-exchange, on the other hand, was linked to the ‘short term transactional order,’ in which unscrupulous 48 Of course, not every polis espoused or exhibited egalitarian principles to the same extent. 48 individuals put their particular short-term needs above the needs of the community writ large. The proponents of the polis, on the other hand, would have viewed certain forms of gift- exchange with suspicion, particularly those that were deemed to entrench power amongst a small elite, and would have promoted monetary-exchange as a means of undermining or circumventing aristocratic control. Kurke’s theory has the virtue of explaining the hostility towards monetary exchange within our ancient sources. It also explains the pervasive association of monetary exchange with the polis and its institutions. Her model can also help us to understand why ancient writers should have valorised gift-exchange over commodity-exchange or why they should have posited a rigorous distinction between them. 49 For Kurke, the valorisation of gift- exchange and opposition towards monetary exchange tended to indicate one’s subscription to an elitist political position: one that posited absolute and natural divisions between people of different social status. The contestation over the various forms of exchange was thus linked in important ways to the politics of class and status. Using Kurke’s argument, we can begin to see why the difference between monetary- exchange and non-monetary exchange may have been important to Plato’s Socrates. The distinction between the two forms of exchange would have been a moral and political one as well as a practical one. 49 I thus find Kurke’s position to be more useful than that of Richard Seaford. In his review of Coins, Bodies, Games, and Gold and in Money and the Early Greek Mind, Seaford dismisses Kurke’s suggestion that there was an ‘elite hostility to coinage’ in ancient Greece. In the latter text, he claims that ‘[c]oinage, like the polis that issued it, was too omnipresent to be treated with lofty disdain by aristocrats’ (Seaford 2004, 260). Seaford invokes the example of Plato as evidence that elites were not hostile towards coinage, but anxiously ambivalent towards it. Seaford thus underplays Plato’s evident desire to subordinate monetary exchange to gift-exchange- a desire that is better explained with reference to Kurke’s historical theory. Thus, whilst Plato’s attitude towards coinage is ultimately one of ambivalence, as Seaford suggests, I would not endorse his use of Plato in his debate with Kurke. On my reading, the Platonic corpus offers much evidence in support of Kurke’s theory, and it is misleading to suggest- as Seaford does- that Plato does not want monetary exchange to be inferior to gift- exchange. 49 Kurke’s analysis of course has profound implications for our reading of Plato and, consequently, for our understanding of Greek intellectual history. For the character of Socrates is given an unusual prominence in many of the dialogues. And if Plato’s Socrates- or indeed, Plato himself- believed in the moral superiority of gift-exchange and its associated values, then his testimony would be partial from the outset. His perspective on contemporary thinkers would have been informed by his distinctive political viewpoint. We should thus be wary of taking his dialogues as some sort of unprejudiced depiction of Greek intellectual culture: instead, his would be a non-traditional defence of traditional values against that which was perceived to have threatened them. This hypothesis can help us to make sense of many different passages throughout the Platonic corpus. In the section below, I shall consider a passage from the Apology, which has long been considered to be among Plato’s early dialogues. The Apology is a representation of Socrates’ defence speech at his trial for impiety in 399 BCE. He would ultimately be convicted at this trial and sentenced to death. Sophistai and philosophoi in the Apology At the beginning of the Apology, the character of Socrates claims to have been misrepresented by slanderers within the Athenian democracy and on stage by the comic poets. He suggests that they are at fault for his current predicament. For his accuser, Meletus, had lodged the following charge against him: 50 ‘Σωκράτης ἀδικεῖ καὶ περιεργάζεται ζητῶν τά τε ὑπὸ γῆς καὶ οὐράνια καὶ τὸν ἥττω λόγον κρείττω ποιῶν καὶ ἄλλους ταὐτὰ ταῦτα διδάσκων.’ Pl. Ap. 19b-c ‘Socrates is a wrongdoer and busybody who seeks the things beneath the earth and in the heavens, who makes the worse argument better, and who teaches others these same things.’ According to Socrates, these charges may have applied to the character of Socrates in the Clouds, Aristophanes’ play of 423 BCE, but they did not apply to him. Plato’s Socrates suggests that Aristophanes misrepresented him and denies all of the charges, starting with the charge that he investigates the things beneath the earth and in the heavens. Afterwards, he discusses the last of the accusations levelled against him: ἀλλὰ γὰρ οὔτε τούτων οὐδέν ἐστιν, οὐδέ γ᾽ εἴ τινος ἀκηκόατε ὡς ἐγὼ παιδεύειν ἐπιχειρῶ ἀνθρώπους καὶ χρήματα πράττομαι, οὐδὲ τοῦτο ἀληθές. ἐπεὶ καὶ τοῦτό γέ μοι δοκεῖ καλὸν εἶναι, εἴ τις οἷός τ᾽ εἴη παιδεύειν ἀνθρώπους ὥσπερ Γοργίας τε ὁ Λεοντῖνος καὶ Πρόδικος ὁ Κεῖος καὶ Ἱππίας ὁ Ἠλεῖος. τούτων γὰρ ἕκαστος, ὦ ἄνδρες, οἷός τ᾽ ἐστὶν ἰὼν εἰς ἑκάστην τῶν πόλεων τοὺς νέους- οἷς ἔξεστι τῶν ἑαυτῶν πολιτῶν προῖκα συνεῖναι ᾧ ἂν βούλωνται- τούτους πείθουσι τὰς ἐκείνων συνουσίας ἀπολιπόντας σφίσιν συνεῖναι χρήματα διδόντας καὶ χάριν προσειδέναι. 19d-20a But in fact, none of these things are true, and if you have heard from anyone that I undertake to educate people and that I make money by it, that is not true either. Although this also seems to me to be a fine thing, if one might be able to educate people, as Gorgias of Leontini and Prodicus of Ceos and Hippias of Elis are. For each of these men, gentlemen, is able to go into any one of the cities and persuade the young men, who can associate for free (proika) with whomsoever they wish among their 51 own fellow citizens, to give up the association with those men and to associate with them and pay them money and be grateful besides. Here, Socrates distances himself from historical figures like Gorgias, Prodicus, and Hippias. Where they travelled between cities teaching in exchange for money, he did not. Socrates seems to suggest that he was not a teacher because he did not charge fees for his company. He draws a distinction between associating with one’s fellow citizens ‘for free’ (προῖκα) and consorting with foreigners like Gorgias and his ilk in exchange for cash. The adverb proika (‘freely’, ‘as a free gift’) is derived from the noun proix (‘gift’). It could thus recall the values of gift-exchange. Socrates would then be distancing himself from commodity-exchange and contrasting it with the values of gift-exchange. A reading of this kind gives us a different perspective on the following passage. Having invoked the opposition between gift-exchange and commodity-exchange, Socrates sharpens the distinction between himself and the others: ἐπεὶ καὶ ἄλλος ἀνήρ ἐστι Πάριος ἐνθάδε σοφὸς ὃν ἐγὼ ᾐσθόμην ἐπιδημοῦντα· ἔτυχον γὰρ προσελθὼν ἀνδρὶ ὃς τετέλεκε χρήματα σοφισταῖς πλείω ἢ σύμπαντες οἱ ἄλλοι, Καλλίᾳ τῷ Ἱππονίκου· τοῦτον οὖν ἀνηρόμην- ἐστὸν γὰρ αὐτῷ δύο ὑεῖ- ‘ὦ Καλλία,’ ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ‘εἰ μέν σου τὼ ὑεῖ πώλω ἢ μόσχω ἐγενέσθην, εἴχομεν ἂν αὐτοῖν ἐπιστάτην λαβεῖν καὶ μισθώσασθαι ὃς ἔμελλεν αὐτὼ καλώ τε κἀγαθὼ ποιήσειν τὴν προσήκουσαν ἀρετήν, ἦν δ᾽ ἂν οὗτος ἢ τῶν ἱππικῶν τις ἢ τῶν γεωργικῶν· νῦν δ᾽ ἐπειδὴ ἀνθρώπω ἐστόν, τίνα αὐτοῖν ἐν νῷ ἔχεις ἐπιστάτην λαβεῖν; τίς τῆς τοιαύτης ἀρετῆς, τῆς ἀνθρωπίνης τε καὶ πολιτικῆς, ἐπιστήμων ἐστίν; οἶμαι γάρ σε ἐσκέφθαι διὰ τὴν τῶν ὑέων κτῆσιν. ἔστιν τις,’ ἔφην ἐγώ, ‘ἢ οὔ;’ ‘πάνυ γε,’ ἦ δ᾽ ὅς. ‘τίς,’ ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ‘καὶ ποδαπός, καὶ πόσου διδάσκει;’ ‘Εὔηνος,’ ἔφη, ‘ὦ Σώκρατες, Πάριος, πέντε μνῶν.’ καὶ ἐγὼ τὸν Εὔηνον ἐμακάρισα εἰ ὡς ἀληθῶς ἔχοι ταύτην τὴν τέχνην 52 καὶ οὕτως ἐμμελῶς διδάσκει. ἐγὼ γοῦν καὶ αὐτὸς ἐκαλλυνόμην τε καὶ ἡβρυνόμην ἂν εἰ ἠπιστάμην ταῦτα· ἀλλ᾽ οὐ γὰρ ἐπίσταμαι, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι. Pl. Ap. 20a-c And there is also another wise man here, a Parian, who I learned was in town; for I happened to meet a man who has spent more on sophistai than all the rest, Callias, the son of Hipponicus; so I asked him- for he has two sons- “Callias,” said I, “if your two sons had happened to be two colts or two calves, we should be able to get and hire for them an overseer who would make them excellent (kalō k’agathō) in the kind of virtue (aretē) proper to them; and he would be a horse-trainer or a husbandman; but now, since they are two human beings, whom have you in mind to get as overseer? Who has knowledge of that kind of virtue (aretē), that of a man and a citizen? For I think you have looked into the matter, because you have the sons. Is there anyone,” said I, “or not?” “Certainly,” said he. “Who,” said I, “and where from, and for how much does he teach?” “Evenus,” he said, “Socrates, from Paros, five minae.” And I called Evenus blessed, if he really had this art and taught so reasonably. I myself should be vain and put on airs, if I understood these things; but I do not understand them, men of Athens. In this passage, Socrates adds some touches to his presentation of the so-called sophistai. Not only did they travel to other cities and teach in exchange for pay: they also claimed to teach virtue (ἀρετὴ). Socrates suggests that this was an ambitious claim- one that he would not make for himself. He thus associates the claim to teach virtue with the practice of commodity-exchange, and distances himself from both. This passage has often been read retrospectively, as if a technical definition of the term sophistēs existed before Plato wrote the Apology. C. C. W. Taylor puts it thus: 53 … it is commonplace that Plato regarded the perception of Socrates as a sophist as having contributed to the hostility which led to his being accused and his death, and that it was consequently central to his apologetic programme to distance Socrates from the sophists. Taylor (2006, 157). Here, Taylor seems to suggest that the difference between Socrates and ‘the sophists’ was already apparent- to some, at least- even before Plato wrote the Apology. But if we read the Apology with Kurke’s framework in mind, we might propose a different order of precedence. What if the difference between Socrates and the sophistai was the difference between gift-exchange and commodity-exchange? To put it another way, what if Plato believed in the moral superiority of gift-exchange, and hence asserted the moral superiority of Socrates over the money-making sophistai? The text certainly lends itself to this reading. Socrates seems to appeal to the values of gift-exchange whilst distancing himself from the so- called sophistai. He would thus be invoking the difference between gift-exchange and commodity-exchange as a means of separating himself from them. In my view, this is the more plausible reading of the passage, particularly when we take the historical context into account. Whether Socrates in fact differed from the sophistai in this way is controversial: in Aristophanes’ play, the Clouds, Socrates is presented as a money-maker, and not someone who abstained from commodity-exchange. 50 The historical ‘truth’ of the matter is thus, in principle, unprovable: we must either choose to believe Plato’s testimony or that of Aristophanes. Rather than deciding between the two accounts, I propose that we ask instead why Plato presents the difference between Socrates and the sophistai in terms of the distinction between gift-exchange and commodity-exchange. I have suggested that there were historical reasons for doing so. We thus have grounds to suppose that Plato 50 See esp. Ar. Cl. 98-99; 808-12; 875. 54 was asserting the difference between Socrates and the sophistai in terms that would have resonated with his contemporaries. The framework that I have proposed would also help us to link the notion of philosophia, via the character of Socrates, to the values of gift-exchange. For Socrates says later in the dialogue that he was ordered by the god Apollo to spend his life philosophising (φιλοσοφοῦντα, 28e). If Socrates is linked to gift-exchange and separated from the sophistai, who represent commodity-exchange and its values, then philosophy, as the characteristic activity of Socrates, would also be associated with gift-exchange. This points towards the idea of a binary opposition between sophistry and philosophy- while in the Protagoras, the same term was used to designate both the ‘sophist’ and the ‘philosopher’, which suggests a much closer relation between them. The historical context can also help us to interpret Socrates’ conversation with Hippias of Elis at the beginning of the Hippias Major. The Hippias Major has been considered a spurious work, though the current scholarly consensus is that it is authentic. 51 Paul Woodruff has argued that it is an early dialogue- he suggests 390 BCE as a possible date of composition- and has suggested that its dramatic date is at some point between the years 421 and 413 BCE. 52 I shall look at the dialogue’s opening in some detail below. 51 See Woodruff (1982), 94-103. 52 See Woodruff (1982), 93-94. 55 Sophistai in the Hippias Major The Hippias Major stages a conversation in Athens between Socrates and Hippias of Elis. In the opening lines, Socrates says that Hippias had not visited Athens for some time. Hippias explains that he has been busy working as an envoy for his fellow citizens, having been elected as the ablest among them. He also tells us that he has spent an especially long time in Sparta on their behalf. Socrates heaps praise upon him for his successes: τοιοῦτον μέντοι, ὦ Ἱππία, ἔστι τὸ τῇ ἀληθείᾳ σοφόν τε καὶ τέλειον ἄνδρα εἶναι. σὺ γὰρ καὶ ἰδίᾳ ἱκανὸς εἶ παρὰ τῶν νέων πολλὰ χρήματα λαμβάνων ἔτι πλείω ὠφελεῖν ὧν λαμβάνεις, καὶ αὖ δημοσίᾳ τὴν σαυτοῦ πόλιν ἱκανὸς εὐεργετεῖν, ὥσπερ χρὴ τὸν μέλλοντα μὴ καταφρονήσεσθαι ἀλλ᾽ εὐδοκιμήσειν ἐν τοῖς πολλοῖς. ἀτάρ, ὦ Ἱππία, τί ποτε τὸ αἴτιον ὅτι οἱ παλαιοὶ ἐκεῖνοι, ὧν ὀνόματα μεγάλα λέγεται ἐπὶ σοφίᾳ, Πιττακοῦ τε καὶ Βίαντος καὶ τῶν ἀμφὶ τὸν Μιλήσιον Θαλῆν καὶ ἔτι τῶν ὕστερον μέχρι Ἀναξαγόρου, ὡς ἢ πάντες ἢ οἱ πολλοὶ αὐτῶν φαίνονται ἀπεχόμενοι τῶν πολιτικῶν πράξεων; Hipp. Maj. 281b-d That’s what it is, Hippias, to be a truly wise and perfect man! For you are able, in your private capacity, to make lots of money from young men and to confer upon them still greater benefits than you receive, and in public affairs you are able to benefit your own state, as a man must who is to be not despised but held in high repute among the many (tois pollois). And yet, Hippias, what in the world is the reason why those men of old whose names are called great in respect to wisdom- Pittacus, and Bias, and the Milesian Thales with his followers and also the later ones, down to Anaxagoras, are all, or most of them, found to keep away from affairs of state? Let us note the contrast that Socrates draws between Hippias, the wise men of old, and even contemporaries of Hippias like Anaxagoras. Hippias is presented as someone who 56 makes money in his private capacity as a teacher, but also someone who is involved in contemporary politics. He is contrasted with the three Sages Pittacus, Bias, and Thales, but also with Anaxagoras of Clazomenae, who was active in Athens during the fifth century BCE. These latter wise men all distanced themselves from the affairs of state. They would all seem, on Socrates’ account, to have been private citizens who shunned public life. Many scholars have argued that Socrates’ presentation is historically inaccurate. 1 The evidence from writers other than Plato suggests that Pittacus, Thales, and Bias were notable statesmen. 2 Even Anaxagoras is thought to have been involved in Athenian politics, albeit indirectly: he was an associate of Pericles, the most important Athenian statesman in the mid- fifth century, and the historian Diodorus Siculus suggests that Anaxagoras’ prosecution for impiety was a covert political attack on his Athenian friend. 3 So why does Socrates insist that they abstained from affairs of state? And why does Hippias agree with him? For Woodruff, this whole account is supposed to paint Hippias in an unflattering light: Socrates is claiming that the early wise men were not statesmen or money-makers so as to contrast them with men like Hippias. But if this is so, it would seem that the joke depends on the notion that money- making and involvement in public affairs are disreputable activities- hence why the early wise men kept to themselves. Hippias suggests in response that his skills were more capacious than those of his precursors. Their wisdom, he says, could not encompass both public and private matters. Socrates asks whether this is not proof of Hippias’ advancement over them: 1 See for example Woodruff (1982), 37; Kurke (2010), 111. For evidence of Thales’ skill as a political advisor, see Hdt. 1. 74. 2 See esp. Diog. Laert. 1. 1-5. 3 Diod. Sic. 12. 39. 2. 57 ἆρ᾽ οὖν πρὸς Διός, ὥσπερ αἱ ἄλλαι τέχναι ἐπιδεδώκασι καὶ εἰσὶ παρὰ τοὺς νῦν δημιουργοὺς οἱ παλαιοὶ φαῦλοι, οὕτω καὶ τὴν ὑμετέραν τὴν τῶν σοφιστῶν τέχνην ἐπιδεδωκέναι φῶμεν καὶ εἶναι τῶν ἀρχαίων τοὺς περὶ τὴν σοφίαν φαύλους πρὸς ὑμᾶς; 281d Then, by Zeus, just as the other arts have progressed, and the ancients are worthless (phauloi) in comparison with the artisans of today, shall we say that your art- the art of the sophistai- has also progressed, and that those of the ancients who were concerned with wisdom are worthless in comparison with you? Socrates makes explicit what was implicit in Hippias’ statements. But in the process, he associates the term sophistēs with Hippias, calling Hippias’ art the ‘art of the sophistai.’ He thus connects the term to the practice of commodity-exchange- one of the practices that marks Hippias apart from his precursors. We may suspect from our reading of the Protagoras and the Apology that Socrates does not believe the earlier sages were inferior to sophistai such as Hippias. But Hippias seems to take him at his word: for he says that Socrates has spoken correctly. He would thus appear to subscribe to the idea that he was superior to his precursors- even if he would not say such things himself. Once Hippias has accepted his account, Socrates develops his contrast between the sophistai of his own day and the wise men of former times: συμμαρτυρῆσαι δέ σοι ἔχω ὅτι ἀληθῆ λέγεις, καὶ τῷ ὄντι ὑμῶν ἐπιδέδωκεν ἡ τέχνη πρὸς τὸ καὶ τὰ δημόσια πράττειν δύνασθαι μετὰ τῶν ἰδίων. Γοργίας τε γὰρ οὗτος ὁ Λεοντῖνος σοφιστὴς δεῦρο ἀφίκετο δημοσίᾳ οἴκοθεν πρεσβεύων, ὡς ἱκανώτατος ὢν Λεοντίνων τὰ 58 κοινὰ πράττειν, καὶ ἔν τε τῷ δήμῳ ἔδοξεν ἄριστα εἰπεῖν, καὶ ἰδίᾳ ἐπιδείξεις ποιούμενος καὶ συνὼν τοῖς νέοις χρήματα πολλὰ ἠργάσατο καὶ ἔλαβεν ἐκ τῆσδε τῆς πόλεως· εἰ δὲ βούλει, ὁ ἡμέτερος ἑταῖρος Πρόδικος οὗτος πολλάκις μὲν καὶ ἄλλοτε δημοσίᾳ ἀφίκετο, ἀτὰρ τὰ τελευταῖα ἔναγχος ἀφικόμενος δημοσίᾳ ἐκ Κέω λέγων τ᾽ ἐν τῇ βουλῇ πάνυ ηὐδοκίμησεν καὶ ἰδίᾳ ἐπιδείξεις ποιούμενος καὶ τοῖς νέοις συνὼν χρήματα ἔλαβεν θαυμαστὰ ὅσα. τῶν δὲ παλαιῶν ἐκείνων οὐδεὶς πώποτε ἠξίωσεν ἀργύριον μισθὸν πράξασθαι οὐδ᾽ ἐπιδείξεις ποιήσασθαι ἐν παντοδαποῖς ἀνθρώποις τῆς ἑαυτοῦ σοφίας· οὕτως ἦσαν εὐήθεις καὶ ἐλελήθει αὐτοὺς ἀργύριον ὡς πολλοῦ ἄξιον εἴη. τούτων δ᾽ ἑκάτερος πλέον ἀργύριον ἀπὸ σοφίας εἴργασται ἢ ἄλλος δημιουργὸς ἀφ᾽ ἧστινος τέχνης· καὶ ἔτι πρότερος τούτων Πρωταγόρας. 282b-d I can also bear witness that you speak the truth, and that your art really has progressed in the direction of ability to carry on public together with private affairs. For this man Gorgias, the sophistēs from Leontini, came here from home in the public capacity of envoy, as being best able of all the citizens of Leontini to attend to the interests of the community, and it was the general opinion that he spoke excellently in the public assembly, and in his private capacity, by giving exhibitions and associating with the young, he earned and received a great deal of money from this city; or, if you like, our friend here, Prodicus, often went to other places in a public capacity, and the last time, just lately, when he came here in a public capacity from Ceos, he gained great reputation by his speaking before the Council, and in his private capacity, by giving exhibitions and associating with the young, he received a marvellous sum of money; but none of those ancients ever thought fit to exact the money as payment for his wisdom or to give exhibitions among people of various places; so simple-minded were they, and so unconscious of the fact that money is of great value. But either of these two has earned more money from his wisdom than any artisan from his art. And even before these Protagoras did so. 59 Here, Socrates suggests that there were others like Hippias who had made money in a private capacity whilst also involving themselves in public affairs. Gorgias, Prodicus, and Protagoras were similar to Hippias and different from the ancients. When Socrates calls Gorgias a sophistēs, he associates the term with the mercantile wise men of his own day. Once again, Socrates develops his notion of a sophistēs by means of a contrast. He associates the sophistai with commodity-exchange and participation in public life. The wise men of old were involved in neither- or so he says. At this stage, Socrates suggests that the sophistai were cleverer than their precursors. After securing Hippias’ agreement, he will undermine this putative hierarchy. Let us also note Socrates’ proposition that ‘money is of great value’. Coming from Socrates, this statement would appear to be heavily ironic. But Hippias accepts it without question and even suggests that he has advanced beyond his contemporaries because he had made more money than they had. He would then seem to be someone who measured success- and, indeed, wisdom- in monetary terms. Socrates continues to bestow ironic praise upon Hippias: καλόν γε, ὦ Ἱππία, λέγεις καὶ μέγα τεκμήριον σοφίας τῆς τε σεαυτοῦ καὶ τῶν νῦν ἀνθρώπων πρὸς τοὺς ἀρχαίους ὅσον διαφέρουσι. τῶν γὰρ προτέρων μέχρι 4 Ἀναξαγόρου λέγεται πολλὴ ἀμαθία κατὰ τὸν σὸν λόγον. τοὐναντίον γὰρ Ἀναξαγόρᾳ φασὶ συμβῆναι ἢ ὑμῖν: καταλειφθέντων γὰρ αὐτῷ πολλῶν χρημάτων καταμελῆσαι καὶ ἀπολέσαι πάντα- οὕτως αὐτὸν ἀνόητα σοφίζεσθαι- λέγουσι δὲ καὶ περὶ ἄλλων τῶν παλαιῶν ἕτερα τοιαῦτα. τοῦτο μὲν 4 Reading mechri for peri with Grube. 60 οὖν μοι δοκεῖς καλὸν τεκμήριον ἀποφαίνειν περὶ σοφίας τῶν νῦν πρὸς τοὺς προτέρους, καὶ πολλοῖς συνδοκεῖ ὅτι τὸν σοφὸν αὐτὸν αὑτῷ μάλιστα δεῖ σοφὸν εἶναι: τούτου δ᾽ ὅρος ἐστὶν ἄρα, ὃς ἂν πλεῖστον ἀργύριον ἐργάσηται. 282e-283b That’s a fine thing you say, Hippias, and great proof both of your wisdom and that of the men of today- inasmuch as they differ from the ancients. For, according to your reasoning, the earlier ones down to Anaxagoras are said to be very ignorant; for they say that what happened to Anaxagoras was the opposite of what happens to you; for though much money was left him, he neglected it and lost it all- so senseless was his wisdom. And they tell similar tales about others among the ancients. This seems to me fine testimony that you adduce for the wisdom of the men of today as compared with the earlier men, and many people agree with me that the wise man must be wise for himself especially; and the measure of this is, who makes the most money. Here, Socrates credits Hippias with a position that was implicit in his boasts. He suggests that, for Hippias, the mark of a man’s wisdom is the amount of money that he makes. Since Hippias was the sophistēs who had made the most money, he would appear to have been the wisest of them all. The ancients, on the other hand, must not have been wise, since they did not make money from their particular brands of wisdom. Having set Hippias up as someone who values money above all else, Socrates asks him why he did not make any money as an educator in Sparta. Perhaps, he suggests, the Spartan education was better than the one offered by Hippias. When Hippias denies that this was the case, Socrates poses another question: πότερον οὖν τοὺς νέους οὐχ οἷός τ᾽ ἦσθα πείθειν ἐν Λακεδαίμονι ὡς σοὶ συνόντες πλέον ἂν εἰς ἀρετὴν ἐπιδιδοῖεν ἢ τοῖς ἑαυτῶν, ἢ τοὺς ἐκείνων πατέρας ἠδυνάτεις πείθειν ὅτι σοὶ χρὴ 61 παραδιδόναι μᾶλλον ἢ αὐτοὺς ἐπιμελεῖσθαι, εἴπερ τι τῶν ὑέων κήδονται; οὐ γάρ που ἐφθόνουν γε τοῖς ἑαυτῶν παισὶν ὡς βελτίστοις γενέσθαι. 283e Then were you not able to persuade the young men at Lacedaemon that they would make more progress towards virtue by associating with you than with their own people, or were you powerless to persuade their fathers that they ought rather to hand them over to you than to care for them themselves, if they are at all concerned for their sons? Surely, they did not begrudge it to their children to become as good as possible. In these lines, Socrates offers Hippias a number of explanations for his failure to make money amongst the Spartans. He takes it for granted that the Spartans would have wanted the best for their young. Hippias must thus have failed to convince the Spartan young that he was able to make them as good as it was possible for them to be. But Socrates also seems to know what choices were available to the Spartan youth. He suggests that they could have associated with Hippias- a foreigner- or with their own kind (τοῖς ἑαυτῶν). He thus distinguishes between two forms of education: a ‘foreign education’ (ξενικὴν παίδευσιν, 284c)- that is, education by a foreigner- and a ‘local’ (ἐπιχωρίαν, 285a) education, which seems to mean education by a local. It becomes apparent that the Spartans not only preferred the latter mode of education, but made it compulsory. Hippias explains that a ‘foreign education’ is ‘illegal’ in Sparta (ξενικὴν παίδευσιν οὐ νόμιμον, 284c). Their young are thus compelled to learn from their fathers (ὑπὸ… τῶν πατέρων, 285a), and may not learn from foreigners like Hippias in exchange for money. As in the Protagoras, the Spartan system of education appears to be closed to outsiders. It resembles a closed system of gift-exchange- particularly when we consider the way in which it is contrasted with the type of education offered by Hippias. 62 The Hippias Major thus opposes the Spartan system of education to an education by a sophistēs in exchange for money. The two kinds of education would be differentiated according to their respective relationships to commodity-exchange. Though Socrates pretends to side with Hippias, we may be sure that he prefers the first mode of education to the second. As in the other dialogues, then, Plato’s Socrates seems to posit an opposition between commodity-exchange and gift-exchange, and to associate the term sophistēs with the values of commodity-exchange. The figure of the sophistēs is again created by means of a contrast. In the Hippias Major, the contrast is between the sophistai of Socrates’ day, who taught for money, and the wise men of old, who did not. Socrates thus suggests that there were wise men who did not participate in commodity-exchange- rather like the sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans in the Protagoras. The Apology and the Hippias Major thus support my contention that Socrates wanted to oppose commodity-exchange to gift-exchange. These dialogues also suggest that Socrates associated the term sophistēs with commodity-exchange. They can help us to understand why the Socrates of the Republic would have regarded the distinction between philosopher and sophist as an opposition. For if the philosopher and the sophist are differentiated along the lines of gift-exchange and commodity-exchange respectively, and if gift-exchange is separate from and superior to commodity-exchange, then the philosopher would appear to be separate from and superior to the sophist. Let us turn to Book Six of Plato’s Republic. The Republic is thought to have been one of Plato’s middle dialogues. It would thus have been written after the dialogues that we have 63 looked at in the previous sections. As Eric Havelock has pointed out, it is the dialogue where Plato devotes the most attention to the question of what a philosopher is. 5 It is thus a central text in the history of the idea of philosophy. Philosophoi and sophistai in Plato’s Republic The first passage of interest for my present purposes takes place during a discussion about the corruption of young men by their wage-earning teachers- the people known as sophistai. The character of Socrates dismisses the idea that a young person could be corrupted to any degree worth mentioning by a private tutor. 6 In his view, the true sophistai were the leaders of the Athenian democracy, who were the most effective at shaping public opinion and who promulgated the idea that private tutors corrupted their students. In any event, says Socrates, the efforts of these leaders were misguided: ἕκαστος τῶν μισθαρνούντων ἰδιωτῶν, οὓς δὴ οὗτοι σοφιστὰς καλοῦσι καὶ ἀντιτέχνους ἡγοῦνται, μὴ ἄλλα παιδεύειν ἢ ταῦτα τὰ τῶν πολλῶν δόγματα, ἃ δοξάζουσιν ὅταν ἁθροισθῶσιν, καὶ σοφίαν ταύτην καλεῖν· οἷόνπερ ἂν εἰ θρέμματος μεγάλου καὶ ἰσχυροῦ τρεφομένου τὰς ὀργάς τις καὶ ἐπιθυμίας κατεμάνθανεν, ὅπῃ τε προσελθεῖν χρὴ καὶ ὅπῃ ἅψασθαι αὐτοῦ, καὶ ὁπότε χαλεπώτατον ἢ πρᾳότατον καὶ ἐκ τίνων γίγνεται, καὶ φωνὰς δὴ ἐφ᾽ οἷς ἑκάστας εἴωθεν φθέγγεσθαι, καὶ οἵας αὖ ἄλλου φθεγγομένου ἡμεροῦταί τε καὶ ἀγριαίνει, καταμαθὼν δὲ ταῦτα πάντα συνουσίᾳ τε καὶ χρόνου τριβῇ σοφίαν τε καλέσειεν καὶ ὡς τέχνην συστησάμενος ἐπὶ διδασκαλίαν τρέποιτο, μηδὲν εἰδὼς τῇ ἀληθείᾳ τούτων τῶν δογμάτων τε καὶ ἐπιθυμιῶν ὅτι καλὸν ἢ αἰσχρὸν ἢ ἀγαθὸν ἢ κακὸν ἢ δίκαιον ἢ ἄδικον, ὀνομάζοι δὲ πάντα 5 Havelock (1963), 281. 6 Pl. Rep. 492a 64 ταῦτα ἐπὶ ταῖς τοῦ μεγάλου ζῴου δόξαις, οἷς μὲν χαίροι ἐκεῖνο ἀγαθὰ καλῶν, οἷς δὲ ἄχθοιτο κακά, ἄλλον δὲ μηδένα ἔχοι λόγον περὶ αὐτῶν, ἀλλὰ τἀναγκαῖα δίκαια καλοῖ καὶ καλά, τὴν δὲ τοῦ ἀναγκαίου καὶ ἀγαθοῦ φύσιν, ὅσον διαφέρει τῷ ὄντι, μήτε ἑωρακὼς εἴη μήτε ἄλλῳ δυνατὸς δεῖξαι. Pl. Rep. 493a-c None of those private wage-earners- the ones these people call sophistai and consider to be their rivals in craft- teaches anything other than the convictions the masses hold when they are assembled together, and this he calls wisdom. It is just as if someone were learning the passions and appetites of a huge, strong beast that he is rearing- how to approach and handle it, when it is most difficult to deal with or most docile and what makes it so, what sounds it utters in either condition, and what tones of voice soothe or anger it. Having learned all this through associating and spending time with the beast, he calls this wisdom, gathers his information together as if it were a craft, and starts to teach it. Knowing nothing in reality about which of these convictions or appetites is fine or shameful, good or bad, just or unjust, he uses all these terms in conformity with the great beast’s belief- calling the things it enjoys good and the things that anger it bad. He has no other account to give of them, but calls everything he is compelled to do just and fine, never having seen how much the natures of compulsion and goodness really differ, and being unable to explain it to anyone. In this fascinating passage, Socrates compares the figure of the sophistēs to a beast- keeper and the masses (οἱ πολλοί) to an enormous beast. Since the beast-keeper’s knowledge pertains to the moods of the beast itself, he is not able to speak objectively, as it were, about what is good or bad in general. His knowledge is a restricted one, and yet he speaks about it as if it were true ‘wisdom’. For Socrates, it is impossible for such a person to be a true philosophos- that is, a lover of wisdom. 7 7 Pl. Rep. 6. 494a. 65 As in the earlier dialogues, the figure of the sophistēs is linked to the masses and to the practice of commodity-exchange. In this way, the sophistēs differs from the true philosophos, who is by definition not a lover of money (Pl. Rep. 6. 485e). Later in Book Six, we learn from Socrates that there are in fact very few true philosophoi: πάνσμικρον δή τι, ἔφην ἐγώ, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, λείπεται τῶν κατ᾽ ἀξίαν ὁμιλούντων φιλοσοφίᾳ, ἤ που ὑπὸ φυγῆς καταληφθὲν γενναῖον καὶ εὖ τεθραμμένον ἦθος, ἀπορίᾳ τῶν διαφθερούντων κατὰ φύσιν μεῖναν ἐπ᾽ αὐτῇ, ἢ ἐν σμικρᾷ πόλει ὅταν μεγάλη ψυχὴ φυῇ καὶ ἀτιμάσασα τὰ τῆς πόλεως ὑπερίδῃ· βραχὺ δέ πού τι καὶ ἀπ᾽ ἄλλης τέχνης δικαίως ἀτιμάσαν εὐφυὲς ἐπ᾽ αὐτὴν ἂν ἔλθοι. εἴη δ᾽ ἂν καὶ ὁ τοῦ ἡμετέρου ἑταίρου Θεάγους χαλινὸς οἷος κατασχεῖν· καὶ γὰρ Θεάγει τὰ μὲν ἄλλα πάντα παρεσκεύασται πρὸς τὸ ἐκπεσεῖν φιλοσοφίας, ἡ δὲ τοῦ σώματος νοσοτροφία ἀπείργουσα αὐτὸν τῶν πολιτικῶν κατέχει. τὸ δ᾽ ἡμέτερον οὐκ ἄξιον λέγειν, τὸ δαιμόνιον σημεῖον· ἢ γάρ πού τινι ἄλλῳ ἢ οὐδενὶ τῶν ἔμπροσθεν γέγονεν. καὶ τούτων δὴ τῶν ὀλίγων οἱ γενόμενοι καὶ γευσάμενοι ὡς ἡδὺ καὶ μακάριον τὸ κτῆμα, καὶ τῶν πολλῶν αὖ ἱκανῶς ἰδόντες τὴν μανίαν, καὶ ὅτι οὐδεὶς οὐδὲν ὑγιὲς ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν περὶ τὰ τῶν πόλεων πράττει οὐδ᾽ ἔστι σύμμαχος μεθ᾽ ὅτου τις ἰὼν ἐπὶ τὴν τῷ δικαίῳ βοήθειαν σῴζοιτ᾽ ἄν, ἀλλ᾽ ὥσπερ εἰς θηρία ἄνθρωπος ἐμπεσών, οὔτε συναδικεῖν ἐθέλων οὔτε ἱκανὸς ὢν εἷς πᾶσιν ἀγρίοις ἀντέχειν, πρίν τι τὴν πόλιν ἢ φίλους ὀνῆσαι προαπολόμενος ἀνωφελὴς αὑτῷ τε καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἂν γένοιτο- ταῦτα πάντα λογισμῷ λαβών, ἡσυχίαν ἔχων καὶ τὰ αὑτοῦ πράττων, οἷον ἐν χειμῶνι κονιορτοῦ καὶ ζάλης ὑπὸ πνεύματος φερομένου ὑπὸ τειχίον ἀποστάς, ὁρῶν τοὺς ἄλλους καταπιμπλαμένους ἀνομίας, ἀγαπᾷ εἴ πῃ αὐτὸς καθαρὸς ἀδικίας τε καὶ ἀνοσίων ἔργων τόν τε ἐνθάδε βίον βιώσεται καὶ τὴν ἀπαλλαγὴν αὐτοῦ μετὰ καλῆς ἐλπίδος ἵλεώς τε καὶ εὐμενὴς ἀπαλλάξεται. Pl. Rep. 496a-e 66 ‘There remains, Adeimantus,’ I said, ‘a very small group who associate with philosophy in a way that is worthy of her: a noble and well brought-up character, perhaps, kept down by exile, who stays true to his nature and remains with philosophy because there is no-one to corrupt him; or a great soul living in a small city, who disdains the city’s affairs and looks beyond them. A very few might perhaps come to philosophy from other crafts that they rightly despise because they have good natures. And some might be held back by the bridle that restrains our friend Theages- you see, he meets all the other conditions needed to make him fall away from philosophy, but his physical illness keeps him out of politics and prevents it. Finally, my own case is hardly worth mentioning- my daimonic sign- since I don’t suppose it has happened to anyone else or to only a few before. Now, those who have become members of this little group have tasted how sweet and blessed a possession philosophy is. At the same time, they have also seen the insanity of the masses and realised that there is nothing healthy, so to speak, in public affairs, and that there is no ally with whose aid the champion of justice can survive; that instead he would perish before he could profit either his city or his friends, and be useless both to himself and to others- like a man who has fallen among wild animals and is neither willing to join them in doing injustice nor sufficiently strong to oppose the general savagery alone. Taking all this into his calculations, he keeps quiet and does his own work, like someone who takes refuge under a little wall from a storm of dust and hail driven by the wind. Seeing others filled with lawlessness, he is satisfied if he can somehow lead his present life pure of injustice and impious acts, and depart from it with good hope, blameless and content. As Andrea Nightingale has noted, this is the only passage in Plato where Socrates refers to a ‘group’ of philosophoi, and the defining criterion of the philosophos is his ‘political orientation’ (Nightingale 1995, 19). The philosophos is characterised by the fact that he shuns public life and the affairs of the city, which are associated with ‘lawlessness’ (ἀνομία), ‘injustice’ (ἀδικία), and ‘insanity’ (μανία). Socrates thus presents the city and its 67 institutions as causes of moral degradation- a position that would have resonated with an elitist ideology. 8 In the Republic, then, the philosophos and the sophistēs appear to be differentiated by their relation to monetary exchange and the city. The sophistai wholeheartedly participate in both; the philosophoi, on the other hand, abstain from participation in either. The Republic would then confirm the association of the sophistai with commodity-exchange and the philosophoi with the values of gift-exchange. My reading of the Protagoras can also help us to interpret a passage from another later text. In the Laws, a lengthy dialogue which was supposedly written late in Plato’s life, a major speaker other than Socrates appears to subordinate commodity-exchange to gift- exchange. 9 The consistency of this opinion among major Platonic characters may lead us to conclude that Plato himself held these views. This will be important when we go on to consider the impact of the Platonic corpus in its immediate historical context. Monetary exchange in the Laws The Laws presents a discussion between a Spartan called Megillus, a Cretan called Clinias, and their unnamed Athenian guest. The three are concerned to establish the laws for an idealised city that they call Magnesia. After discussing the penalties for adulteration in their city in Book Eleven, the Athenian proposes that they put in place several rules for trade (καπηλεία): 8 See for example Better Argument’s criticisms of the agora, the bath-houses, and the courts as places which noble young men should avoid (Ar. Cl. 990- 1004). 9 There is some outside evidence that the Laws was written late in Plato’s life: Arist. Pol. 1264b 26-7; Diog. Laert. 3. 37. 68 κιβδήλοις δ᾽ ἐπιτηδεύμασιν ἕπεται κατὰ πόδα καπηλείας ἐπιτηδεύματα· ταύτης δὲ πέρι συμπάσης συμβουλὴν πρῶτον δόντες καὶ λόγον, ἐπ᾽ αὐτῇ νόμον ὕστερον ἐπιθώμεθα. καπηλεία γὰρ κατὰ πόλιν πᾶσα γέγονεν οὐ βλάβης ἕνεκα τό γε κατὰ φύσιν, πᾶν δὲ τοὐναντίον· πῶς γὰρ οὐκ εὐεργέτης πᾶς ὃς ἂν οὐσίαν χρημάτων ὡντινωνοῦν, ἀσύμμετρον οὖσαν καὶ ἀνώμαλον, ὁμαλήν τε καὶ σύμμετρον ἀπεργάζηται; τοῦτο ἡμῖν χρὴ φάναι καὶ τὴν τοῦ νομίσματος ἀπεργάζεσθαι δύναμιν, καὶ τὸν ἔμπορον ἐπὶ τούτῳ τετάχθαι δεῖ λέγειν. καὶ μισθωτὸς καὶ πανδοκεὺς καὶ ἄλλα, τὰ μὲν εὐσχημονέστερα, τὰ δὲ ἀσχημονέστερα γιγνόμενα, τοῦτό γε πάντα δύναται, πᾶσιν ἐπικουρίαν ταῖς χρείαις ἐξευπορεῖν καὶ ὁμαλότητα ταῖς οὐσίαις. Pl. Leg. 918a-c Following close upon practices of adulteration are the practices of retail trading; concerning which, as a whole, we shall first offer counsel and argument, and then impose on it a law. The natural purpose for which all retail trading comes into existence in a state is not harm, but precisely the opposite; for how can any man be anything but a benefactor if he renders even and symmetrical the distribution of any kind of goods which before was unsymmetrical and uneven? And this is, we must say, the effect produced by the power of coinage (nomismata), and we must declare that the merchant is ordained for this purpose. And the hireling and the innkeeper and the rest- some more and some less respectable trades- all have this function, namely, to provide all men with full satisfaction of their needs and with evenness in their properties. Tr. R. G. Bury with modifications. The Athenian here acknowledges that those involved in trade have a bad reputation. At the same time, he suggests that trade and money can do good in society. 10 It is thus for 10 For Richard Seaford, this passage is evidence of Plato’s ‘interestingly ambivalent’ attitude towards money (Seaford 2004, 259). Seaford is right to point out that there is an apparent ambivalence here, but it is misleading to characterise this ambivalence as Plato’s. It is rather money itself that has an ambivalent power- and for Plato, this is a bad thing. 69 him a matter of interest to consider how trade came to have such a bad reputation, and to see whether laws could constrain its worse aspects. When Clinias asks him to explain his meaning, the Athenian makes the following series of claims: ὦ φίλε Κλεινία, σμικρὸν γένος ἀνθρώπων καὶ φύσει ὀλίγον καὶ ἄκρᾳ τροφῇ τεθραμμένον, ὅταν εἰς χρείας τε καὶ ἐπιθυμίας τινῶν ἐμπίπτῃ, καρτερεῖν πρὸς τὸ μέτριον δυνατόν ἐστιν, καὶ ὅταν ἐξῇ χρήματα λαβεῖν πολλά, νήφει καὶ πρότερον αἱρεῖται τοῦ πολλοῦ τὸ τοῦ μέτρου ἐχόμενον· τὰ δὲ τῶν ἀνθρώπων πλήθη πᾶν τοὐναντίον ἔχει τούτοις, δεόμενά τε ἀμέτρως δεῖται καὶ ἐξὸν κερδαίνειν τὰ μέτρια, ἀπλήστως αἱρεῖται κερδαίνειν, διὸ πάντα τὰ περὶ τὴν καπηλείαν καὶ ἐμπορίαν καὶ πανδοκείαν γένη διαβέβληταί τε καὶ ἐν αἰσχροῖς γέγονεν ὀνείδεσιν. Pl. Leg. 918c-d My dear Clinias, small is the class of men- rare by nature and raised, too, with the greatest upbringing- who, when they fall into diverse needs and lusts, are able to stand out firmly for moderation, and who, when they have the power of taking many things (chrēmata), are sober, and choose what is of due measure rather than what is large. The disposition of the mass of mankind is exactly the opposite of this: when they desire, they desire without limit, and when they can make moderate gains, they prefer to gain insatiably; and it is because of this that all the classes concerned with retail trade, commerce, and inn-keeping are disparaged and subjected to shameful reproaches. Tr. R. G. Bury, with modifications. According to the Athenian, then, commodity-exchange is not bad in itself: it is rather that the people who are generally engaged in trade are incapable of exercising self-control or 70 moderation. Their bad behaviour has in turn given trade a bad name. The Athenian develops his point by means of what for him is a ludicrous hypothetical: ἐπεὶ εἴ τις, ὃ μή ποτε γένοιτο οὐδ᾽ ἔσται, προσαναγκάσειεν- γελοῖον μὲν εἰπεῖν, ὅμως δὲ εἰρήσεται- πανδοκεῦσαι τοὺς πανταχῇ ἀρίστους ἄνδρας ἐπί τινα χρόνον, ἢ καπηλεύειν ἤ τι τῶν τοιούτων πράττειν, ἢ καὶ γυναῖκας ἔκ τινος ἀνάγκης εἱμαρμένης τοῦ τοιούτου μετασχεῖν τρόπου, γνοίημεν ἂν ὡς φίλον καὶ ἀγαπητόν ἐστιν ἕκαστον τούτων, καὶ εἰ κατὰ λόγον ἀδιάφθορον γίγνοιτο, ἐν μητρὸς ἂν καὶ τροφοῦ σχήματι τιμῷτο τὰ τοιαῦτα πάντα· Pl. Leg. 918d-e Now if anyone were to do what never will be done (and indeed, may it not ever happen)- though I shall make the supposition, ridiculous though it is- namely, compel the best men everywhere for a certain period to keep inns or to peddle or to carry on any such trade, or even to compel women by some necessity of fate to take part in such a mode of life- then we should learn how each of these callings is friendly and desirable; and if all these professions were carried on according to a faculty of reason (logon) that was free from corruption, all of them would be honoured with the honour which one pays to a mother or a nurse. Trans. R. G. Bury, with modifications. Trade and other such activities could thus feasibly be carried out by the best of men and women with no ill effect: indeed, traders would then be afforded the greatest reverence. This would prove the point that commodity-exchange was not an evil in itself. However, the best men and women would never choose to engage in these activities, since it would be unbecoming of them. Their abstention from these trades would thus be a sign of their virtuousness. 71 One might see in the Athenian’s convoluted argumentation some of the ‘kettle-logic’ that Derrida saw in Plato’s Phaedrus. In the myth on the origins of writing, Thamus, the king of the Egyptian gods, piled up a series of contradictory arguments in order to arrange everything in his favour. He wanted to maintain simultaneously the idea that writing was rigorously exterior to speech and memory and the notion that writing was harmful to memory. This had led him to affirm three contradictory propositions: 1) Writing is rigorously exterior and inferior to living memory and speech, which are therefore undamaged by it. 2) Writing is harmful to them because it puts them to sleep and infects their very life which would otherwise remain intact. 3) Anyway, if one has resorted to hypomnesia and writing at all, it is not for their intrinsic value, but because living memory is finite, it already has holes in it before writing ever comes to leave traces. Writing has no effect on memory. Derrida (1981), 111 In the same way, the Athenian here sets up his own series of contradictory propositions. 1) The best men do not and would not engage in commerce. 2) Even if they did engage in commerce, they would be able to exercise restraint and moderation and would thus remain invulnerable to the destructive desire that money instils in other people. 3) However, they would not and should not ever participate in trade: for it would be ridiculous for a good man to take up such a mode of life. The Athenian would thus appear to maintain that a life of commerce is utterly alien to the best men and that they could take on such a mode of life with no ill effects. Since the best of men did not engage in commodity-exchange, the money-making professions were dominated by those who made up the mass (πλῆθος) of mankind. As a result, trade was now the province of the most grasping and shameless of folk. The Athenian put it thus: 72 νῦν δὲ ὁπόταν εἰς ἐρήμους τις καπηλείας ἕνεκα τόπους καὶ πανταχόσε μήκη ἔχοντας ὁδῶν ἱδρυσάμενος οἰκήσεις, ἐν ἀπορίᾳ γιγνομένους καταλύσεσιν ἀγαπηταῖς δεχόμενος ἢ ὑπὸ χειμώνων ἀγρίων βίᾳ ἐλαυνομένους, εὐδιεινὴν γαλήνην παρασχὼν ἢ πνίγεσιν ἀναψυχήν, τὰ μετὰ ταῦτα οὐχ ὡς ἑταίρους δεξάμενος φιλικὰ παράσχῃ ξένια ἑπόμενα ταῖς ὑποδοχαῖς, ὡς δ᾽ ἐχθροὺς αἰχμαλώτους κεχειρωμένους ἀπολυτρώσῃ τῶν μακροτάτων καὶ ἀδίκων καὶ ἀκαθάρτων λύτρων, ταῦτά ἐστιν καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα ἐν σύμπασιν τοῖς τοιούτοις ὀρθῶς ἁμαρτανόμενα τὰς διαβολὰς τῇ τῆς ἀπορίας ἐπικουρήσει παρεσκευακότα. Pl. Leg. 918e-919b But as things are now, whenever a man has planted his house, with a view to trade, in a deserted place and with all the roads from it lengthy, if in this welcome lodging he receives travellers in distress, providing tranquillity and calm to those buffeted by fierce storms or restful coolness after torrid heat- the next thing is that, instead of treating them as comrades and providing friendly gifts (xenia) as well as entertainment, he holds them ransom, as if they were captive foemen in his hands, demanding very high sums of unjust and unclean ransom-money; it is criminal practices such as this, in the case of all these trades, that afford grounds of complaint against this way of succouring distress. We may note that the Athenian contrasts the trade of the inn-keepers with the traditional practices of xenia (‘hospitality’ or ‘guest-friendship’). Where hosts in Homer provide gifts to their guests as they depart, the inn-keepers demand payment from people who have already been oppressed by bad weather and the like. 11 The Athenian describes the payment that they demand as a lutron (‘ransom’), thus presenting the inn-keepers as captors rather than hosts. 11 See for example Hom. Od. 13. 10ff. 73 It is for this reason, says the Athenian, that they must intervene as lawgivers: τούτων οὖν χρὴ φάρμακον ἀεὶ τέμνειν τὸν νομοθέτην. ὀρθὸν μὲν δὴ πάλαι τε εἰρημένον ὡς πρὸς δύο μάχεσθαι καὶ ἐναντία χαλεπόν, καθάπερ ἐν ταῖς νόσοις πολλοῖς τε ἄλλοισιν· καὶ δὴ καὶ νῦν ἡ τούτων καὶ περὶ ταῦτα ἐστὶν πρὸς δύο μάχη, πενίαν καὶ πλοῦτον, τὸν μὲν ψυχὴν διεφθαρκότα τρυφῇ τῶν ἀνθρώπων, τὴν δὲ λύπαις προτετραμμένην εἰς ἀναισχυντίαν αὐτήν. Pl. Leg. 919b-c For these evils, then, the lawgiver must in each case provide a remedy (pharmakon). It is an old and true saying that it is hard to fight against the attack of two foes of opposite quarters, as in the case of diseases and many other things; and indeed, our present fight in this matter is against two foes, poverty and plenty, of which the one corrupts the soul of men with luxury, while the other by means of pain plunges it into shamelessness. The Athenian describes the laws that they will propose as a pharmakon- that is, a remedy or cure, but perhaps even a poison. He suggests that money itself is part of a solution to the problem of poverty. However, money itself can give rise to other problems, such as luxury. Thus, he offers a three-fold solution to the problem of money: πρῶτον μὲν ὅτι σμικροτάτῳ χρῆσθαι κατὰ δύναμιν τῷ τῶν καπήλων γένει, ἔπειτα τούτοις τῶν ἀνθρώπων προστάττειν ὧν διαφθειρομένων οὐκ ἂν γίγνοιτο μεγάλη λύμη τῇ πόλει, τρίτον δὲ αὐτοῖς τοῖς μετασχοῦσι τούτων τῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων εὑρεῖν μηχανὴν ὅπως ἤθη μὴ ἀνέδην ἀναισχυντίας τε καὶ ἀνελευθέρου ψυχῆς μέτοχα συμβήσεται γίγνεσθαι ῥᾳδίως. Pl. Leg. 919c-d 74 The first is to employ the trading class as little as possible; the second, to assign to that class those men whose corruption would prove no great damage (lumē) to the state; the third, to find a means whereby the dispositions of those engaged in these callings may not quite so easily become infected by shamelessness and ungentlemanly behaviour (aneleutherou). The Athenian recommends that the trading class should consist of men whose corruption would not violate the integrity of the polis as a whole. We should recall that, for the interlocutors in the Laws, the true citizens of Magnesia are within the 5040 households of which the state is composed. Only people who are not from among this privileged class may participate in trade. In addition, the Athenian tries to limit the effects of trade on the souls of the traders themselves. He says that the most deleterious effects are anaischuntia (‘shamelessness’) and aneleutheria. Though I have translated the word aneleutheria as ‘ungentlemanly behaviour,’ it literally means something like ‘unfreemanlike behaviour.’ An eleutheros is a ‘free man,’ as opposed to a slave. The Athenian would thus be suggesting that traders are wont to display the kind of behaviour that is more befitting of a slave than a free man. Consequently, the Athenian proposes three laws for the citizens of Magnesia. The first imposes restrictions on the city’s landowning class, who constitute the citizen body proper: Μαγνήτων, οὓς ὁ θεὸς ἀνορθῶν πάλιν κατοικίζει, γεωμόροι ὅσοι τῶν τετταράκοντα καὶ πεντακισχιλίων ἑστιῶν εἰσιν, μήτε κάπηλος ἑκὼν μηδ᾽ ἄκων μηδεὶς γιγνέσθω μηδ᾽ ἔμπορος μήτε διακονίαν μηδ᾽ ἥντινα κεκτημένος ἰδιώταις τοῖς μὴ ἐξ ἴσου ἑαυτῷ, πλὴν πατρὶ καὶ μητρὶ καὶ τοῖς ἔτι τούτων εἰς τὸ ἄνω γένεσιν καὶ πᾶσι τοῖς αὑτοῦ πρεσβυτέροις, ὅσοι ἐλεύθεροι ἐλευθέρως. Pl. Leg. 919d-e 75 Amongst the Magnesians, whom the god is restoring and founding afresh, none of all the landholders who belong to the 5040 houses shall, either willingly or unwillingly, become a retail trader or a merchant, or engage in any menial service for private persons (idiōtais) who are not on an equal footing to him, save only for his father and mother and those of a still earlier generation, and all that are elder than himself, they being gentlemen (eleutheroi) and his a gentleman's service (eleutherōs). 919d-e. The landholding citizens of Magnesia would thus be prohibited from taking up any of the money-making professions. They would not even be allowed to engage in any exchange that would be deemed unbecoming of a free man. The Athenian goes on to admit that it is difficult to fix in law definitions of gentlemanly (ἐλευθερικὸν) and ungentlemanly (ἀνελεύθερον) behaviour. He thus leaves decisions of this kind to the discretion of those who have achieved public distinction. Nevertheless, he imposes steep punishments for those who break the law: ὃς δ᾽ ἂν καπηλείας τῆς ἀνελευθέρου τέχνῃ τινὶ μετάσχῃ, γραφέσθω μὲν αὐτὸν γένους αἰσχύνης ὁ βουλόμενος πρὸς τοὺς ἀρετῇ πρώτους κεκριμένους, ἐὰν δὲ δόξῃ ἀναξίῳ ἐπιτηδεύματι καταρρυπαίνειν τὴν αὑτοῦ πατρῴαν ἑστίαν, δεθεὶς ἐνιαυτὸν ἀποσχέσθω τοῦ τοιούτου, καὶ ἐὰν αὖθις, ἔτη δύο, καὶ ἐφ᾽ ἑκάστης ἁλώσεως τοὺς δεσμοὺς μὴ παυέσθω διπλασιάζων τὸν ἔμπροσθεν χρόνον. Pl. Leg. 919e-920a If any citizen in any craft engages in ungentlemanly trade, let anyone who wants to indict him for shaming his family before those adjudged to be the first in virtue, and if it be held that he is sullying his paternal hearth with an unworthy calling, he shall be imprisoned for a year and thus restrained 76 from it; and if he does it again, he shall get two years imprisonment, and for each subsequent conviction the period of imprisonment shall go on being doubled. The offender’s exact crime would be that of ‘sullying’ or ‘defiling’ his father’s hearth by taking on an unworthy profession. The practice of commodity-exchange would thus be considered an affront to one’s family- the very people who had bequeathed their property to the citizen in question, and thus made him a citizen. This, presumably, accounts for the Athenian’s second law: that those who engage in retail trade must be foreigners (ξένοι) or resident aliens (μέτοικοι). As foreigners or metics, they were already excluded from the citizen body and deprived of citizen rights, such as the right to own land. If they were to become corrupted, they would pose no real danger to the 5,040 households that made up the citizen body of Magnesia. The Athenian would thus like involvement in trade to be a sign that one was not a citizen: citizens themselves, as a consequence of this, would be defined in part by the fact that they did not and could not participate in trade. To be sure, not all foreigners would be traders; but all traders would be foreigners. Such a division of labour would have corresponded to the Classical Athenian ideal, as Andrea Nightingale has argued. 12 With his final law, the Athenian dictates that those who upheld the law in the state should enlist the help of the trading class to help them police that class: ταύτῃ δὴ τὰ περὶ τὴν καπηλείαν πολλὴν οὖσαν καὶ πολλὰ ἐπιτηδεύματα τοιαῦτα κεκτημένην, ὅσαπερ ἂν αὐτῶν λειφθῇ δόξαντα ἐκ πολλῆς ἀνάγκης ἐν τῇ πόλει δεῖν εἶναι, συνελθεῖν αὖ χρεὼν περὶ ταῦτα τοὺς νομοφύλακας μετὰ τῶν ἐμπείρων ἑκάστης καπηλείας, καθάπερ 12 Nightingale (1995), 24. 77 ἔμπροσθεν ἐπετάξαμεν τῆς κιβδηλείας πέρι, συγγενοῦς τούτῳ πράγματος, συνελθόντας δὲ ἰδεῖν λῆμμά τε καὶ ἀνάλωμα τί ποτε τῷ καπήλῳ κέρδος ποιεῖ τὸ μέτριον, γράψαντας δὲ θεῖναι τὸ γιγνόμενον ἀνάλωμα καὶ λῆμμα καὶ φυλάττειν, τὰ μὲν ἀγορανόμους, τὰ δὲ ἀστυνόμους, τὰ δὲ ἀγρονόμους· καὶ σχεδὸν οὕτως ἂν καπηλεία τὰ μὲν ὠφελοῖ ἑκάστους, σμικρότατα δὲ ἂν βλάπτοι τοὺς ἐν ταῖς πόλεσι χρωμένους. 920b-c Accordingly, with respect to retail trading, which is a multifarious occupation, embracing many callings of a similar nature- with respect (I mean) to so many branches as are allowed to exist, as being deemed absolutely necessary to the state, concerning these the procedure shall be the same as that previously described in the case of the kindred matter of adulteration: the Law-wardens must meet in consultation with experts in every branch of retail trade, and at their meetings they must consider what standard of profits and expenses produces a moderate profit for the trader, and the standard of profits and expenses thus arrived at they must prescribe in writing; and this they must insist on- the market-stewards, the city-stewards, and the rural stewards, each in their own sphere. So possibly, by this means, retail trade would be of benefit to all classes, and would do but little damage to those in the states who practise it. Tr. R. G. Bury with modifications. The third law thus aims at the domestication of trade. The Athenian is concerned to prevent traders from making too much profit from their activities. We should note that, while Plato’s Athenian may express a clear preference for non-monetary forms of exchange, he cannot deny that money is useful for the distribution of resources. In seeking to constrain money’s worst effects, he tacitly acknowledges its indispensability to the healthy functioning of the state. The co-presence of monetary and non-monetary forms here is important because it complicates our picture of Plato’s politics. It would appear that he does not believe in 78 banning money outright. Though he clearly regards money-makers as immoral and thinks trade should be regulated, he would gear both towards his own purposes. 13 His solution to the problem of money in the Laws is to prohibit the best of men- the citizens of Magnesia- from becoming traders themselves. From the beginning of Plato’s career to its end, we find evidence that he valorised giving and gift-exchange over exchange and commodity-exchange. This bias is important for our understanding of Plato and of Greek history, since Plato appears to have constructed the figures of the philosophos and sophistēs along these lines. But the opposition between ‘philosopher’ and ‘sophist’ is often difficult to maintain- precisely because the distinction between gift-exchange and commodity-exchange is an unstable one. Even if Plato would have liked for them to have been absolutely opposed to one another, there are moments when the lines between them become blurry. A passage from the Cratylus is particularly instructive in this regard. The Cratylus, which is often considered among Plato’s middle dialogues, depicts a conversation between Socrates and his friend Hermogenes, the brother of Callias. The two devote the majority of their discussion to the subject of names. Midway through the dialogue, Socrates describes the god Hades as a sophistēs and a philosophos- a statement that seems to be at odds with the idea that the sophistēs is the opposite of the philosophos. I shall look at the passage in some detail in the section below. 13 Richard Seaford also comes to this conclusion. See Seaford (2002), 162. 79 Philosophos and sophistēs in the Cratylus The passage in question occurs during a discussion about the names of the gods. Socrates tells his interlocutor Hermogenes how Pluto (Πλοὺτων, Pl. Crat. 403a), the god of the underworld, was so named because wealth (πλοῦτος) comes from beneath the earth. Socrates supposes that the masses preferred this name to the god’s other name, Hades (Ἅιδης), because they thought that ‘Hades’ was derived from the Greek word for ‘invisible’ (ἀειδής) and regarded the latter concept as being a cause for fear. In Socrates’ view, the fears of the masses were unfounded: if no-one ever returned from the underworld, it was because they wanted to remain in Hades. This leads him to speculate on the character of the god: διὰ ταῦτα ἄρα φῶμεν, ὦ Ἑρμόγενες, οὐδένα δεῦρο ἐθελῆσαι ἀπελθεῖν τῶν ἐκεῖθεν, οὐδὲ αὐτὰς τὰς Σειρῆνας, ἀλλὰ κατακεκηλῆσθαι ἐκείνας τε καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους πάντας· οὕτω καλούς τινας, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἐπίσταται λόγους λέγειν ὁ Ἅιδης, καὶ ἔστιν, ὥς γ᾽ ἐκ τοῦ λόγου τούτου, ὁ θεὸς οὗτος τέλεος σοφιστής τε καὶ μέγας εὐεργέτης τῶν παρ᾽ αὐτῷ, ὅς γε καὶ τοῖς ἐνθάδε τοσαῦτα ἀγαθὰ ἀνίησιν· οὕτω πολλὰ αὐτῷ τὰ περιόντα ἐκεῖ ἐστιν, καὶ τὸν ‘Πλούτωνα’ ἀπὸ τούτου ἔσχε τὸ ὄνομα. Pl. Crat. 403d-404a On account of these things, Hermogenes, let us say that this is the reason why no one has been willing to come away from that other world, not even the Sirens: instead, they and all others have been overcome by his enchantments; so beautiful, as it appears, are the words which Hades has the power to speak; and from this point of view this god is a perfect sophistēs and a great benefactor of those in his realm, he who also bestows such great blessings upon us who are on earth; such abundance surrounds him there below, and for this reason he is called Pluto. 80 In these lines, Socrates praises Hades because he convinces the souls of the dead to remain with him in his kingdom. He calls the god a ‘perfect sophistēs,’ in part because of his unerring ability to persuade, but perhaps also because of his association with wealth. He then suggests that Hades is a philosophos as well: καὶ τὸ αὖ μὴ ἐθέλειν συνεῖναι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἔχουσι τὰ σώματα, ἀλλὰ τότε συγγίγνεσθαι, ἐπειδὰν ἡ ψυχὴ καθαρὰ ᾖ πάντων τῶν περὶ τὸ σῶμα κακῶν καὶ ἐπιθυμιῶν, οὐ φιλοσόφου δοκεῖ σοι εἶναι καὶ εὖ ἐντεθυμημένου ὅτι οὕτω μὲν ἂν κατέχοι αὐτοὺς δήσας τῇ περὶ ἀρετὴν ἐπιθυμίᾳ, ἔχοντας δὲ τὴν τοῦ σώματος πτοίησιν καὶ μανίαν οὐδ᾽ ἂν ὁ Κρόνος δύναιτο ὁ πατὴρ συγκατέχειν αὑτῷ ἐν τοῖς δεσμοῖς δήσας τοῖς αὐτοῦ λεγομένοις; Then, too, he refuses to consort with men while they have bodies, but only accepts their society when the soul is pure of all the evils and desires of the body. Do you not think this shows him to be a philosophos and to understand perfectly that under these conditions he could restrain them by binding them with the desire of virtue, but that so long as they are infected with the unrest and madness of the body, not even his father Cronus could hold them to himself, though he bound them with his famous chains? Socrates suggests that Hades is a philosophos because he chooses to spend his time with people only after their souls have departed their bodies. Hades would then disdain the company of the living, on the grounds that they were too tainted by the evils of the body. Like a conservative Greek aristocrat, he appears to be deeply concerned with the qualities of his associates, and maintains a distance from those who fail to meet his standards. 1 Socrates 1 See for example Anytus’ obsession with purity of association at Pl. Men. 91c, which I shall discuss in the next chapter. 81 concludes that the name ‘Hades’ must not be derived from the word for ‘invisible,’ but from the fact that he ‘knows’ (εἰδέναι) all ‘noble’ (καλά) things. In this passage we find evidence that, for the Plato of the Cratylus, a sophistēs could also be a philosophos. This passage is thus in tension with two crucial moments in the Sophist, where the sophistēs and the philosophos are said to be incompatible with one another. 2 But we also see that the two terms have different connotations. The term sophistēs is associated with rhetorical skill and also with wealth (since the sophistēs Hades is the god of wealth). Earlier in the dialogue, it is specifically linked to the practice of commodity- exchange. 3 Philosophos, on the other hand, is associated with judiciousness when it comes to one’s social relations. We are reminded of the difference between commodity-exchange and gift-exchange: where the former is in principle open to anyone, the latter tends to occur between people who are closely related to one another. Commentators on this passage seem to have tacitly recognised that there is a problem with Socrates’ description of Hades as a sophistēs and a philosophos. In his commentary on the Cratylus, Francesco Ademollo claims that the word sophistēs here means a ‘sage,’ even though he translates it as ‘sophist.’ 4 This seems to me to explain away a passage that otherwise undermines the idea that the sophist and philosopher are incompatible with one another, and that a sophistēs is by definition not a philosophos. But if we understand that the two are not opposed, but co-implicated, we can make better sense of passages such as this one, which seem to be in conflict with the traditional account. 2 See Pl. Soph. 253c-254c. for the canonical statement of their incompatibility. See Pl. Soph. 268c for the definition of the sophistēs as ‘the imitator of the wise man’ (μιμητής… τοῦ σοφοῦ). 3 Pl. Crat. 391b-c. 4 Ademollo (2011), 193. 82 This chapter has read the Protagoras through the lens offered by Derrida’s Given Time. I have shown how the economic notion of the sophistēs was necessary for Plato’s conceptualisation of the philosophos, and thus why the two are more closely related than Plato would have us believe. I have also suggested a reason why Plato would have wanted to separate the sophistēs from the philosophos by situating his work within its historical context. I have thus offered two approaches to the interpretation of sophistēs in this dialogue. I submit that these two perspectives enable us to understand many of the varied and often contradictory passages that we encounter in Plato. As we shall see, they also help to explain some of the texts that we find outside of the Platonic corpus. This will be the subject of my next chapter. 83 Chapter Two: The Politics of Philosophy In the previous chapter, I proposed a historicising reading of Plato’s Protagoras. I suggested that this reading could explain several other passages that we find in Plato. I shall now expand my scope a little to consider its implications for Greek literature and history more broadly. There have recently been several attempts to explain how it was that the philosophoi and the sophistai differed in the eyes of the ancient Greeks. In Classical scholarship, the difference between sophistēs and philosophos has been treated as one of expertise. Where philosophoi engaged in the practice of ‘philosophy,’ sophistai taught rhetoric and other such subjects. 1 This explanation fails to account for the passages where so-called philosophoi are labelled sophistai, or where teachers of rhetoric claim to be practising philosophy. 2 Another approach to the topic points to the political significance of the sophistēs-philosophos binary in its ancient context. Andrea Nightingale has shown how the distinction is implicated in ancient politics of class and status. 3 However, her model does not quite account for the overlap between the terms: if, for example, a sophistēs is someone who sells their lessons for money, why does the fourth-century orator Aeschines call Socrates a sophistēs? 4 The idea that the sophistai and philosophoi in fact differed with respect to their economic practices does not quite fit the evidence as we have received it. 1 Kerferd (1981) gives a thorough discussion of the various subjects that individual Greek thinkers were said to have taught. His book is an attempt to rehabilitate the thinkers known as ‘the sophists.’ He thus presupposes the difference between sophist and philosopher, which is precisely the opposition that I am trying to put into question. 2 For the labelling of philosophoi as sophistai, see Aeschines 1. 173, Polyb. Hist. 12. 8, Lysias 3 Nightingale (1995), 55. 4 Aesch. 1. 173. 84 A more recent study has simply pointed to the complete impossibility of upholding the distinction between the two: as Håkan Tell tells us in Plato’s Counterfeit Sophists, ‘there appears to have been no consensus in antiquity, either before or after the fourth century BCE, as to the precise nature and definition of σοφιστής, or as to which individuals should be so labelled- and the same holds true for “philosophy”’ (Tell 2011, 36). But even in Tell’s work, the idea that there was a difference between ‘the sophists’ and the philosophers persists. 5 I suggest that the prevailing explanations have been unable to account for all the evidence because they have taken the opposition too literally. They have tended to assume that there was a ‘real’ difference between sophistai and philosophoi, even if that difference was difficult to discern. 6 In contrast, I shall consider the ideological function of this opposition within its historical context. Rather than seeing the philosophos-sophistēs binary as a reflection of real differences, I shall treat it as an invention- one that served particular ideological needs in fourth-century Greek society. My approach owes much to the notion of a ‘discursive strategy,’ as elaborated by Leslie Kurke in Coins, Bodies, Games, and Gold. Kurke points out that there were two terms that described different kinds of sex worker in Archaic and Classical Greek texts: hetaira and pornē. Like the words philosophos and sophistēs, these two terms appear to have been 5 Tell notes that ‘[w]e are so trapped in Platonic categories that it is almost impossible to discuss this group of thinkers without simultaneously reinforcing their unique status as championed by Plato’ (Tell 2011, 7). Tell thus presupposes the difference between Plato and a certain ‘group of thinkers’. Perhaps because of this, he chooses to retain the label ‘sophist’, deeming it ‘impractical and unnecessarily counterintuitive to avoid it’ (ibid., 8). He thus sacrifices ‘semantic precision for the sake of comprehensibility’ (ibid., 7). I for my part find that the translation of sophistēs with ‘sophist’ clouds our understanding of the primary texts and of Greek history. I have thus elected not to do so, for the most part. 6 Tell tacitly assumes this difference in his usage of the term ‘sophist’. When Tell uses it, the term ‘sophist’ either means a) someone who is labelled a sophistēs in the primary texts or b) ‘the group of individuals so designated in Plato and onward, that is, Protagoras, Gorgias, Prodicus, Hippias, and the rest’ (Tell 2011, 7). The second definition imposes unhelpful restrictions on the first: after all, Plato, Aristotle, and Socrates are all labelled sophistai, but Tell generally does not refer to them as ‘sophists’. This is why I prefer to retain the Greek term sophistēs and to avoid its translation as ‘sophist’. 85 associated with the practices of gift-exchange and commodity-exchange respectively. But the distinction did not necessarily reflect a difference in the economic practices of the two figures: instead, it had a strong ideological component. For Kurke, if the hetaira and the pornē were differentiated along the lines of gift-exchange and commodity-exchange respectively, then ‘the motives behind the forging of this opposition must be political as well as economic’ (Kurke 1999, 181). On her reading, the hetaira-pornē opposition was an invention of the elite symposium. This opposition was designed in part to uphold the ideology that valorised gift-exchange over commodity-exchange, and elite rule over the egalitarian institutions of the polis. It stemmed from an impulse to ‘mystify’ economic relations for sex within the aristocratic symposium whilst occluding the public sphere and the monetary economy of the city. As James Davidson put it, the terms hetaira and pornē should be viewed ‘not as reflections of discrete realities, but as discursive strategies, attempting to create distinctions in precisely those areas where difference is most awkward and problematic’ (quoted in Kurke 1999, 179). I suggest that we view the philosophos-sophistēs opposition in the same way. Let us review the case of Plato in this connection. Like the authors studied by Kurke, Plato seems to valorise gift-exchange over commodity-exchange. He also seems to associate the philosophos with gift-exchange (or at least non-monetary exchange), and the sophistēs with monetary exchange. But the similarities between the hetaira-pornē opposition and the philosophos-sophistēs opposition do not end there. As Kurke notes, there was a different moral inflection given to gift-exchange and commodity-exchange in elitist discourse: As the fourth-century comic poet Anaxilas observed, the hetaira gratified her patron πρὸς χάριν, “as a favour.” And while the hetaira affirms and embodies the circulation of charis within a privileged 86 elite, the pornē in aristocratic discourse figures the debased and promiscuous exchanges of the agora. Kurke (1999), 182. On Kurke’s account, the opposition between hetaira and pornē helped ‘to define and differentiate the sympotic world from the public space of the agora in elitist discourse’ (ibid., 185). It was a means by which aristocrats could distance themselves from the despised realm of the city. We might compare the way that Socrates distances the philosophos from the city’s affairs in Book Six of the Republic, whilst presenting the sophistai as insincere panderers to public opinion. 7 Like the hetaira, the philosophos Socrates abstains from monetary transactions and offers his views to his friends as a charis; he seems to regard such interactions much more favourably than he does the teaching of lessons in exchange for money. 8 Within the Platonic corpus, then, we find grounds for interpreting the philosopher- sophist opposition as a discursive strategy. But Kurke’s analysis also helps to explain what the social function of this discourse may have been. For if the philosopher-sophist opposition was an invention of elitist discourse- like the hetaira-pornē distinction- it could still have real-life implications. Kurke points out that hetairai are often presented with some delicacy in elitist texts: … the category of the hetaira seems at times to entail a deliberate mystification of status, an effort to play down distinctions between the symposiasts and their female companions. That is to say, as Ian Morris has observed of elitist ideology in general, status boundaries of male and female are minimized, while the single distinction- aristocratic elites vs. others- becomes paramount. The 7 Pl. Rep. 493a-e; 496a-e. 8 For Socrates’ participation in exchanges of ‘favours’ or charis, see Pl. Prot. 310a; 335d-e. For his preference for such exchanges, and his disapproval of the demand for money in return, see Pl. Rep. 337e-338b. 87 deliberately obscure standing of the hetaira assists the constitution of this inviolable barrier between the sympotic space and all those outside it (hence the derisive use of the term itself to characterise what, from the outside, must have seemed the bizarrely egalitarian dynamics of the elite symposium). Kurke (1999), 186. Whether participants at elite symposia treated their female companions as equals or not, authors of elitist texts often played down the differences of status between them, and presented their relationships with hetairai in playful terms. Their pronouncements about pornai, on the other hand, were often laced with disgust and condemnation. For elitist writers, the pornē was associated with ‘lewdness, pollution, the humiliating necessity of working for pay, and excessive commonality in the public sphere’ (ibid., 182). On Kurke’s reading, the pornē figures ‘the equalizing power of the universal availability of resources’- and this, on her analysis, is what aristocratic discourse ‘abhors’ (ibid., 198). Like the hetaira, the Platonic Socrates seems to be regarded as an equal by his fellow symposiasts, even if he may be of a different class and status position. 9 Like the elitist authors studied by Kurke, who register their contempt for pornai, he expresses disdain for the money-making sophistai. It is possible that he too was troubled by ‘the equalizing power of the universal availability of resources’- at least as far as education was concerned. In the Protagoras and Hippias Major, he seems to endorse the Spartan form of education, which was exclusively given to Spartans by Spartans. In the Hippias Major, he also appears to approve of the Spartan law that prohibited the education of young Spartans by foreigners. 10 9 Socrates was supposed to have been the son of a sculptor. For Socrates’ poverty, see Pl. Apol. 31c2-3. 10 Pl. Hipp. Maj. 284c ff. 88 Socrates’ preference for an exclusive educational system may help to explain why he is apparently obsessed by the claims of the sophistai to teach virtue (ἀρετὴ). The sophistai, on his account, promised to teach virtue in exchange for a fee. He seems to have been irked by their claims- perhaps because he did not regard the demand for a fee as being in any way virtuous. In the Gorgias, he puts this rather bluntly: περὶ δέ γε ταύτης τῆς πράξεως, ὅντιν᾽ ἄν τις τρόπον ὡς βέλτιστος εἴη καὶ ἄριστα τὴν αὑτοῦ οἰκίαν διοικοῖ ἢ πόλιν, αἰσχρὸν νενόμισται μὴ φάναι συμβουλεύειν, ἐὰν μή τις αὐτῷ ἀργύριον διδῷ. ἦ γάρ; Pl. Gorg. 520e About this business of finding the way to be as good as possible, and of managing one’s own household or city for the best, it is recognized to be a disgrace for one to decline to give advice except for payment in cash. Is it not? In Socrates’ view, those who behaved like Gorgias and Protagoras were acting disgracefully. Such behaviour would fit oddly with their claims to teach virtue. They could not complain, then, if their students went on to cheat them out of their money. Socrates puts it thus: καὶ γὰρ οἱ σοφισταί, τἆλλα σοφοὶ ὄντες, τοῦτο ἄτοπον ἐργάζονται πρᾶγμα· φάσκοντες γὰρ ἀρετῆς διδάσκαλοι εἶναι πολλάκις κατηγοροῦσιν τῶν μαθητῶν ὡς ἀδικοῦσι σφᾶς αὑτούς, τούς τε μισθοὺς ἀποστεροῦντες καὶ ἄλλην χάριν οὐκ ἀποδιδόντες, εὖ παθόντες ὑπ᾽ αὐτῶν. καὶ τούτου τοῦ λόγου τί ἂν ἀλογώτερον εἴη πρᾶγμα, ἀνθρώπους ἀγαθοὺς καὶ δικαίους γενομένους, ἐξαιρεθέντας μὲν ἀδικίαν ὑπὸ τοῦ διδασκάλου, σχόντας δὲ δικαιοσύνην, ἀδικεῖν τούτῳ ᾧ οὐκ ἔχουσιν; οὐ δοκεῖ σοι τοῦτο ἄτοπον εἶναι, ὦ ἑταῖρε; Pl. Gorg. 519c-d 89 For the sophistai- although they are wise in other regards- do this one absurd thing: though they claim to be teachers of virtue, they often accuse their students of acting unjustly towards them, by depriving them of their fees and not giving any other favour (charin) in return, even though these students have been well treated by them. Now what could be more unreasonable than this plea, after the students have become good and just men, after they have had all the injustice in them removed by the teacher, and replaced by justice, should be unjust by means of this thing that they do not have! Does this not seem absurd to you, my friend? Socrates suggests here that the sophistai have not held up their end of the bargain if their students do not become good people under their tutelage. He seems to have little sympathy for those of them who were subsequently cheated by their students. Perhaps he thought that they had set themselves up for failure when they had made the ambitious claim that they could teach virtue. When people like Protagoras claimed to teach virtue in exchange for a fee, they implied that virtue was in principle teachable to anyone. Plato’s Protagoras explicitly espouses this view. 11 But Socrates doubts that it is teachable to anyone: as he argues in the Republic, the student must also have a natural predisposition for just behaviour. 12 One may imagine that, for him, the sophistai were behaving incautiously when they promised to make people better in exchange for a fee. For they would seem, implicitly at least, to subscribe to the view that virtue was teachable to anyone. As Socrates says in the Apology, he would not make such claims himself, nor would he demand payment for other to associate with him. 13 For him, the two seem to go hand in hand. 11 Pl. Prot. 323a. 12 See Pl. Rep. 484e for the philosophical Guardians’ superior grasp of virtue (ἀρετὴ); see 487a for the description of the philosophical nature. For the corruption of the philosophical nature, see 491a-492a. 13 Pl. Ap. 20c. 90 If Socrates separates those who practice gift-exchange or exchanges of favours from those who engage in monetary-transactions, it may be because he regards the former as being morally superior to the latter. The distinction between philosophos and sophistēs would thus for him be a moral distinction- one that is inseparable from the politics of his time. The category of the philosophos, on my reading, may well have been invented so that those of an elitist bent- like Plato’s Socrates- could differentiate themselves from those who engaged in the despised practice of teaching for pay. This representational strategy would have appealed to those of a similar political persuasion. But the notion of ‘philosophy’ was not invented in a vacuum. It was open to appropriation by others- even those of a different political persuasion. And this, as I see it, is why there was no ‘consensus’ as to which thinker was a philosophos and which a sophistēs. Over the course of this chapter, I shall consider how fourth-century authors treat the distinction between philosophos and sophistēs. On my reading, those authors who affirm the difference between them also insist on the moral difference between gift-exchange and commodity-exchange; those authors who elide the distinction, on the other hand, do not claim that there is a moral difference between gift-exchange and commodity-exchange. The contestation over the terms philosophos and sophistēs thus seems to bear witness to a conflict within the highest social circles as to what constituted legitimate culture. 14 14 My approach to this question is informed in large part by the works of Ian Morris and Leslie Kurke, who see two competing traditions at play in the extant Archaic Greek literature. The ‘middling’ tradition ‘deliberately assimilated themselves to the dominant civic values within archaic poleis’ and embraced commodity-exchange; the ‘elitist’ tradition, on the other hand, valorised gift-exchange over commodity-exchange and resisted rule by the polis and its institutions. According to Morris, ‘Much of the social history of the Archaic period is best understood as a conflict between these two conceptions of social order… Both traditions were “elite” in the sense that most poems were produced by and for elites of birth, wealth, and education. The hostility between the extant traditions was primarily a conflict within the highest social circles over what constituted legitimate 91 I shall begin by considering a passage from Plato’s Meno. This passage may help us to understand the political climate that drove the invention of the philosophos. It suggests that ‘anti-sophistic’ prejudice was closely connected to the broader issues of Greek politics- especially those which related to class and status. As a result, there were sound reasons for educators- especially those of an elitist persuasion- to distance themselves from those who taught for pay. Sophistai in Plato’s Meno The Meno is set at an unspecified location in Athens in the year 402 BCE. Meno, a young and handsome aristocrat from Thessaly, had come to stay with his guest-friend Anytus. At the time, the historical Anytus held one of the highest offices in Athens, owing to the fact that he had successfully led a pro-democracy faction against the supporters of the Thirty Tyrants, an oligarchic regime that had been set up by the Spartans after their victory over Athens in the Peloponnesian War. 15 Towards the end of the dialogue, Anytus arrives on the scene for the first time and briefly takes over from Meno as Socrates’ main interlocutor. There is a great deal of dramatic irony in this passage, given that the historical Anytus would go on to become one of Socrates’ accusers at his trial in 399 BCE- the very trial staged by the Apology. When Anytus enters the scene, Socrates tells us a bit about him: culture’ (Morris 1996, 27-28). I see the contestation over the terms sophistēs and philosophos as being a continuation of this debate in the Classical Athenian context. 15 Nails (2002), 37-8. 92 Ἄνυτος γὰρ ὅδε πρῶτον μέν ἐστι πατρὸς πλουσίου τε καὶ σοφοῦ Ἀνθεμίωνος, ὃς ἐγένετο πλούσιος οὐκ ἀπὸ τοῦ αὐτομάτου οὐδὲ δόντος τινός, ὥσπερ ὁ νῦν νεωστὶ εἰληφὼς τὰ Πολυκράτους χρήματα Ἰσμηνίας ὁ Θηβαῖος, ἀλλὰ τῇ αὑτοῦ σοφίᾳ κτησάμενος καὶ ἐπιμελείᾳ, ἔπειτα καὶ τὰ ἄλλα οὐχ ὑπερήφανος δοκῶν εἶναι πολίτης οὐδὲ ὀγκώδης τε καὶ ἐπαχθής, ἀλλὰ κόσμιος καὶ εὐσταλὴς ἀνήρ· ἔπειτα τοῦτον εὖ ἔθρεψεν καὶ ἐπαίδευσεν, ὡς δοκεῖ Ἀθηναίων τῷ πλήθει· αἱροῦνται γοῦν αὐτὸν ἐπὶ τὰς μεγίστας ἀρχάς. 90a-b This man Anytus, in the first place, is the son of a wise and wealthy father, Anthemion, who became rich not by a fluke (apo tou automatou) or a gift- like that man the other day, Ismenias the Theban, who has come into the fortune of a Polycrates- but as the product of his own wisdom and diligence, and who seems to be a generally well-conducted citizen- not insolent and offensive, but orderly and mannered- and who raised his son well and gave him a good education- at least in the eyes of the majority (plēthei) of Athenians, who elect him for the highest offices. Socrates describes Anytus as something of a nouveau riche: the son of a man who had made his fortune all by himself. He praises the education given to Anytus by his father, though he qualifies it as one of which the majority of Athenians seem to approve. Socrates thus connects Anytus to the Athenian masses (πλήθος). As Dominic Scott has noted, Socrates here presents Anytus’ father favourably, rather than Anytus himself. 16 Anthemion is said to have made his fortune from his own wisdom and diligence, and not by a fluke (ἀπὸ τοῦ αὐτομάτου) nor because someone had given it to him. Socrates would appear to value gain as a result of hard work and skill over acquisition by luck or by inheritance. 17 16 Scott (2005), 168. 17 As Michael Naas has noted, automatos is generally a negative term in Plato: ‘it appears to signal everywhere in Plato apart from the Statesman the lack or absence of any guiding principle, any genuine intelligence, 93 Upon introducing Anytus, Socrates asks him to help find a teacher for Meno. He explains what it is that Meno wishes to learn: οὗτος γάρ, ὦ Ἄνυτε, πάλαι λέγει πρός με ὅτι ἐπιθυμεῖ ταύτης τῆς σοφίας καὶ ἀρετῆς ᾗ οἱ ἄνθρωποι τάς τε οἰκίας καὶ τὰς πόλεις καλῶς διοικοῦσι, καὶ τοὺς γονέας τοὺς αὑτῶν θεραπεύουσι, καὶ πολίτας καὶ ξένους ὑποδέξασθαί τε καὶ ἀποπέμψαι ἐπίστανται ἀξίως ἀνδρὸς ἀγαθοῦ. ταύτην οὖν τὴν ἀρετὴν σκόπει παρὰ τίνας ἂν πέμποντες αὐτὸν ὀρθῶς πέμποιμεν. ἢ δῆλον δὴ κατὰ τὸν ἄρτι λόγον ὅτι παρὰ τούτους τοὺς ὑπισχνουμένους ἀρετῆς διδασκάλους εἶναι καὶ ἀποφήναντας αὑτοὺς κοινοὺς τῶν Ἑλλήνων τῷ βουλομένῳ μανθάνειν, μισθὸν τούτου ταξαμένους τε καὶ πραττομένους; 91a-b He has been declaring to me ever so long, Anytus, that he desires to have that wisdom and virtue whereby men keep their house or their city in good order, and honour their parents, and know when to welcome and when to send away citizens and strangers, as befits a good man. Now tell me, to whom ought we properly to send him for lessons in this virtue? Or is it clear enough, from our argument just now, that he should go to these men who profess to be teachers of virtue and advertise themselves as the common teachers of the Greeks, and are ready to instruct anyone who chooses in return for fees charged at a fixed rate? The virtues that Meno wishes to learn would have been typical of an aristocrat like himself. 18 But Socrates suggests that the proper teachers of these virtues were ‘common’ (κοινοὺς) to all the Greeks, inasmuch as they charged a fee for their lessons. whether internal or external’ (Naas 2019, 63). The notion of automatismos would thus be at the lower end of Plato’s scale of values. 18 Plato’s Protagoras claims to teach similar virtues at Pl. Prot. 318e-319a. 94 I suggest that we linger for a moment over the description of these money-making teachers of virtue. Why does Socrates emphasise that they are ‘common’ (κοινὸς) to anyone who wants to learn from them? Perhaps we should consider that commodity-exchange was a considerably more recent phenomenon in Plato’s time than it is for us. It also had, as I have suggested, a specific political significance in ancient Greece, which had until relatively recently been a gift-exchange culture- at least among the elite. As Leslie Kurke has pointed out, goods tend to be valued not cardinally but ordinally in pre-monetary gift-economies. Top-ranked goods, such as precious metals, could not be traded with people of lower status, except in extraordinary circumstances. This would have enabled the aristocratic elite to maintain a monopoly on top-ranked goods, the possession of which could then have been used to justify their rule. When coinage was invented and disseminated, it would have subverted this hierarchy by putting precious metals into general circulation. This would have had a profound significance for the existing social order. As Kurke puts it, … coinage represents a tremendous threat to a stable hierarchy of aristocrats and others, in which the aristocrats maintain a monopoly on precious metals and other prestige goods. With the introduction of coinage looms the prospect of indiscriminate distribution, exchange between strangers that subverts the ranked spheres of exchange-goods operative in a gift-exchange culture. This threat, in turn, represents a social and political threat to elite control, for one of the premises of the system of ranked spheres of exchange is the complete identification of self and status with the precious metals possessed and controlled. Hence the aristocratic monopoly on precious goods within a closed system of gift exchange guarantees an absolute (naturalized) status hierarchy. Coinage represents a double threat to that system, for it puts precious metal into general circulation, breaking down the system of ranked spheres of exchange, and it does so under the symbolic authority of the polis. As stamped civic token, coinage challenges the naturalized claim to power of an aristocratic elite. Kurke (1999), 46-7. 95 I would draw attention to what Kurke calls ‘the prospect of indiscriminate distribution,’ since it may help us to understand why Socrates describes the money-making teachers as being ‘common’ to anyone who wants to learn. Socrates and his interlocutors may have considered teaching for pay as being rather strange- particularly in a world where teachers would traditionally have been people known to a student’s family. 19 Kurke’s theory can also help us to understand what happens next in the Meno. For Anytus seems to hold similar views on the teaching of virtue for pay to those of Socrates. When Anytus asks Socrates which teachers he is talking about, Socrates replies that he is talking about those whom men call sophistai (91b). Anytus reacts with horror: Ἡράκλεις, εὐφήμει, ὦ Σώκρατες. μηδένα τῶν γ᾽ ἐμῶν μήτε οἰκείων μήτε φίλων, μήτε ἀστὸν μήτε ξένον, τοιαύτη μανία λάβοι, ὥστε παρὰ τούτους ἐλθόντα λωβηθῆναι, ἐπεὶ οὗτοί γε φανερά ἐστι λώβη τε καὶ διαφθορὰ τῶν συγγιγνομένων. Pl. Men. 91c By Heracles, hold your tongue (lit. ‘observe holy silence’), Socrates! May such madness never take any kinsman or friend of mine, whether they be a fellow-citizen or a guest-friend (xenon), so as to let themselves come to ruin after consorting with those men, since they are clearly the cause of dishonour (lōbē) and corruption (diaphthora) for those with whom they associate. Anytus appears to harbour an extreme prejudice against the so-called sophistai. But it is less easy to identify the source of his prejudice. According to A. E. Taylor, Anytus ‘has the 19 Mark Griffith points out that in Homer, ‘the relationship between teacher and “student(s)” appears to operate entirely through family networks, with no involvement of the larger political community’ (Griffith 2001, 35). He intimates that the same kind of relationship would have been prevalent even in the Classical period: since teachers like Protagoras ‘charged money, rather than sharing in a familial or reciprocal charis‐based relationship with the adolescents who studied with them, they could be accused of a kind of educational prostitution, “selling” wisdom to all comers’ (Griffith 2015, 48). 96 average Athenian democratic prejudice against men who are “too clever”’ (Taylor 1926, 141). For Dominic Scott, Anytus ‘represents an anti-intellectual tendency that goes to the heart of Plato’s concerns about contemporary Athens’ (Scott 2005, 169). But Anytus does not criticise the sophistai for their intellectual activities: he is instead concerned with their capacity to dishonour or corrupt their associates. His use of the term diaphthora here resonates with the charges against Socrates in the Apology. There, Socrates’ accusers (of whom Anytus was one) charged him with corrupting (διαφθείροντα, Pl. Ap. 24c) the young. The notion that a sophistēs could ‘corrupt’ someone merely by associating with them is perhaps stranger than commentators have allowed. 20 It may help to consider some of the meanings of the Greek verb diaphtheirein. Diaptheirein can mean ‘to destroy utterly’ or ‘ruin’, but it can also be used to mean to ‘corrupt someone with a bribe’ or to ‘seduce a woman’. 21 The underlying notion appears to be that of drawing someone away from their proper relations. 22 I suspect that this is the sense of diaphthora that Anytus has in mind. The sophistai, in his view, draw their students away from their nearest and dearest and convince them to strike up new relations with the sophistai themselves. 23 For Anytus, such relationships would bring dishonour or, indeed, ruin upon the students. That may be why he prays that none of his own friends or relatives come into contact with them. 20 For Dominic Scott, ‘What is so disconcerting about Anytus’ reaction in this context is the way he is prepared to accuse someone of corrupting the young without any serious argument’ (Scott 2005, 164). 21 For the former, see Hdt. 5. 51; Lys. 28. 9. For the latter, see Lys. 1. 16; cf. E. Ba. 318. 22 Even when diaphtheirein means ‘to destroy utterly’, it has something of this significance: for death would also draw someone away from their relationships with others in the world of the living. In this connection, we might compare Heidegger’s thinking of death as absolute non-relationality in Being and Time (Heidegger 1962, 294ff.). 23 Socrates made this claim about the sophistai at the beginning of the Apology (20a). Plato’s Protagoras also suggests that he draws young men away from their existing relations in order to bring them into association with himself (Pl. Prot. 316c-d). 97 Anytus’ outburst may thus exemplify what Leslie Kurke has described as ‘the aristocratic obsession with purity of association’ (Kurke 2011, 215). For Anytus, association with a sophistēs is enough to sour one’s relations with other good, upstanding citizens- those who identified as kaloi k’agathoi. He may not know what the sophistai teach, but he seems to be aware of their reputation- presumably, their reputation amongst his peers- and it is for this reason, I suggest, that he wishes to avoid any interaction with them. 24 Like Socrates, then, Anytus appears to hold a dim view of the sophistai. The prejudice against them is inextricable from the fact that they teach for pay. But Socrates has considered the question of how one should go about educating oneself far more deeply than his interlocutor. He asks Anytus how it is that the sophistai could do harm, rather than good, when so many people were willing both to associate with them and to pay for the privilege. Either the sophistai knowingly corrupted the youth, or they did so unwittingly. But if it were the latter, he did not know how they could have become known as the wisest of men: for they would instead seem to have been mad (μαίνεσθαι, 92a). Anytus, for his part, does not believe that the sophistai were mad: πολλοῦ γε δέουσι μαίνεσθαι, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἀλλὰ πολὺ μᾶλλον οἱ τούτοις διδόντες ἀργύριον τῶν νέων, τούτων δ᾽ ἔτι μᾶλλον οἱ τούτοις ἐπιτρέποντες, οἱ προσήκοντες, πολὺ δὲ μάλιστα πάντων αἱ πόλεις, ἐῶσαι αὐτοὺς εἰσαφικνεῖσθαι καὶ οὐκ ἐξελαύνουσαι, εἴτε τις ξένος ἐπιχειρεῖ τοιοῦτόν τι ποιεῖν εἴτε ἀστός. 92a-b 24 We can compare Anytus’ response to the response of Pheidippides in Aristophanes’ Clouds, when Pheidippides’ father asks him to undertake his education with the money-makers, Socrates and Chaerophon. Pheidippides refuses his father’s entreaties, claiming that he would be ashamed to show his face amongst his aristocratic peers after associating with Socrates and his students (Ar. Cl. 119-20). 98 They are far from mad, Socrates; the young men who give them money are much more so, and still more are those who entrust their relatives to them, and most of all are the cities that allow them to enter and do not drive them out, whether a stranger tries to do such a thing- or a citizen. Anytus is so prejudiced against the sophistai that he advocates violence against them. He suggests that they deserve nothing less than expulsion from the cities in which they try to teach. His comments resonate with those of Protagoras in his first speech in the eponymous dialogue. There, Protagoras claimed that the early sophistai had to hide themselves, lest they should incur the hostility of the powerful in the cities that they visited. 25 The Anytus of the Meno- a powerful figure in his own polis- expresses just such hostility towards sophistai. Plato’s characterisation of Anytus would then lend support to Protagoras’ account. 26 In response, Socrates asks whether Anytus has ever been wronged by a sophistēs himself. Anytus replies in the negative. Not only has he not met a sophistēs: he would not allow any of his relatives to meet one either. Socrates consequently asks how Anytus can know whether sophistai are good (ἀγαθὸν) or bad (φλαῦρον) when he has never met one. Anytus’ reply is a simple one: ῥᾳδίως· τούτους γοῦν οἶδα οἵ εἰσιν, εἴτ᾽ οὖν ἄπειρος αὐτῶν εἰμι εἴτε μή. 92c Easily. I know what they are, whether I have experience of them or not. 25 Pl. Prot. 316e-317b. 26 See Dover (1976) for consideration of the evidence for ‘anti-intellectualism’ in ancient Greece. 99 Anytus is not in the least perturbed by the fact that he has not met a sophistēs and is seemingly unwilling to examine his prejudices. It appears that he cannot countenance the idea that the sophistai may actually have had something to offer their students. As a result, Socrates changes his line of questioning: if they are not to send Meno to the sophistai, what is the name of the man to whom he should go? Again, Anytus fails to see any difficulty: τί δὲ ἑνὸς ἀνθρώπου ὄνομα δεῖ ἀκοῦσαι; ὅτῳ γὰρ ἂν ἐντύχῃ Ἀθηναίων τῶν καλῶν κἀγαθῶν, οὐδεὶς ἔστιν ὃς οὐ βελτίω αὐτὸν ποιήσει ἢ οἱ σοφισταί, ἐάνπερ ἐθέλῃ πείθεσθαι. 92e Why must you hear the name of just one man? For to whomsoever of the Athenian gentleman (kalōn k’agathōn) that he comes across, not one of them will not be able to make him better than the sophistai would- if he is willing to obey them. Anytus here reverts to unthinking snobbery- even if this snobbery is in line with traditional aristocratic sympotic values. If Meno wishes to become a better man, he should associate with a member of the Athenian upper class. By implication, the sophistai do not belong to this illustrious group. Socrates, for his part, seems sceptical of Anytus’ statement. He asks how the kaloi k’agathoi had become such apparently able teachers: πότερον δὲ οὗτοι οἱ καλοὶ κἀγαθοὶ ἀπὸ τοῦ αὐτομάτου ἐγένοντο τοιοῦτοι, παρ᾽ οὐδενὸς μαθόντες ὅμως μέντοι ἄλλους διδάσκειν οἷοί τε ὄντες ταῦτα ἃ αὐτοὶ οὐκ ἔμαθον; 92e-93a 100 And did these gentlemen (kaloi k’agathoi) become what they are without guidance (apo tou automatou), and without learning from anybody are they nevertheless able to teach others what they did not learn themselves? Socrates seems to be asking whether the kaloi k’agathoi learned how to be good men all by themselves- that is, without anyone else teaching them how. Given his earlier opposition of that which came freely or by chance (ἀπὸ τοῦ αὐτομάτου) to that which came through hard work and effort, it is unlikely that he regards learning without guidance very highly. Anytus, for his part, thinks it unlikely that they did learn without any guidance: καὶ τούτους ἔγωγε ἀξιῶ παρὰ τῶν προτέρων μαθεῖν, ὄντων καλῶν κἀγαθῶν· ἢ οὐ δοκοῦσί σοι πολλοὶ καὶ ἀγαθοὶ γεγονέναι ἐν τῇδε τῇ πόλει ἄνδρες; 93a I expect that they learnt it from their forebears, who were gentlemen (kaloi k’agathoi); or does it not seem to you that there have been many good men in this city? Anytus assumes that goodness is transmitted from one generation to the next. Kalok’agathia- a quality that is associated with the traditional aristocracy- would then appear to be the preserve of a narrow elite. I think that this is the point where Socrates and Anytus are at odds. Anytus complacently basks in inherited privilege, believing that it guarantees his own worth; Socrates, on the other hand, seems to value self-advancement through hard work. This is why he expresses grudging admiration for Protagoras, who is said to have enjoyed a reputation for 101 wisdom that spanned forty years. 27 When Socrates points out that there are many good men whose sons were not good in the way that they themselves were good, Anytus turns aggressive. He accuses Socrates of slander and departs the scene with a warning. Socrates suggests to Meno that Anytus is afraid that he himself might be one of these men. The scene with Anytus is important for demonstrating the complexity of Socrates’ attitude towards education. Though he disapproves of those who teach for pay, he is equally uncomfortable with the view that virtue is inherited- a view which, when taken to the extreme, would render hard work and education pointless (since one would have acquired virtue by birth). He thus presents himself as someone who does not teach for pay, but who is nevertheless concerned with the attainment of knowledge and virtue through education. 28 In the Meno, then, we see another possible reason for the invention of the philosophos. Classical Athens was a society where a higher education was apparently in high demand. 29 However, an influential group in Athens seems to have been uncomfortable with the practice of teaching for money, which seemed to fly in the face of much contemporary morality. 30 The category of the philosophos would have allayed some of these concerns. By 27 Pl. Men. 91c-92a. 28 Dominic Scott has noted that Socrates here defends the sophistai, but is reluctant to interpret Socrates’ defence as a genuine one. For him, Socrates is merely playing ‘devil’s advocate for the sophists in general (and Protagoras in particular)’ (Scott 2005, 163). Socrates does this, in his view, because he is disturbed by Anytus’ ignorant condemnation of the sophistai, and not because he really wants to rehabilitate them. But I think we can rescue Socrates from the charge of disingenuousness if we consider the idea that there was no clear notion of ‘sophistry’ prior to Plato (or indeed, after him). So-called sophistai like Protagoras were distinctive not only because of their claims to teach virtue (if indeed this is what they did), but because they taught in exchange for money. I have suggested that this may be the ultimate source of Anytus’ concern. If Anytus’ hostility to the sophistai is, as I have suggested, moral and political, then we could see Socrates’ defence as a plea for Anytus to keep an open mind. Though Socrates too may evince a distaste for money-making, he would seem to be unimpressed by Anytus’ narrow-mindedness and bigotry. He, like Anytus, may have disapproved of commodity-exchange and its associated values; however, he has at least considered the claims of the sophistai to teach virtue, while Anytus has merely assumed- presumably because of hearsay- that they do the exact opposite. 29 For discussion of the Athenian context, see Kerferd (1981), esp. ch. 3. 30 I shall discuss several examples of this discomfort in authors other than Plato later in this chapter. 102 associating themselves with gift-exchange, and purifying themselves of any association with commodity-exchange, the philosophoi could potentially have evaded the hostility that was directed towards the sophistai by Greek aristocrats. This theory would help to explain a passage from an apparently post-Platonic text: the Cynegeticus of Xenophon. Xenophon was a contemporary of Plato and is thought to have been one of his early readers. 31 In the Cynegeticus, he follows Plato in distinguishing between philosophoi and sophistai. For the most part, the passage that I shall discuss has been treated as a piece of evidence about the sophistai from a fourth-century author. Commentators have treated it as if it were a more or less reliable piece of historical testimony, despite the obvious prejudices of its author. They have paid less attention to the passage’s argumentative context and the ways in which it contributes to the author’s self-presentation. 32 I shall ask instead how Xenophon distinguishes the sophistai from the philosophoi. To whom was this discourse intended to appeal? What can it tell us about the historical situation in which Xenophon was writing? In short, I think it makes more sense to regard the opposition between the two figures as a rhetorical strategy than a straightforward record of the real differences between them. This, at any rate, is how I shall approach the passage in question. 31 See Danzig (2018). 32 Håkan Tell, for example, sees this passage as a misrepresentation of the sophistai by a follower of Plato, who was also someone who misrepresented the sophistai (Tell 2011, esp. ch. 2). I am less concerned with the rehabilitation of the thinkers maligned by Plato than I am with the effect that his rhetoric, and that of his followers, would have had in its immediate social context. 103 Philosophoi and sophistai in Xenophon’s Cynegeticus The Cynegeticus is a didactic text delivered by a first-person narrator- ostensibly Xenophon himself. It begins with some practical advice about hunting, and then moves on to a discussion of the benefits of hunting as an activity. Xenophon argues that hunting is good for the body and for the soul, and that it can lead the practitioner towards virtue. He then turns to the subject of the sophistai, who purportedly advertised themselves as teachers of virtue, but whose claims were not to be believed: θαυμάζω δὲ τῶν σοφιστῶν καλουμένων ὅτι φασὶ μὲν ἐπ᾽ ἀρετὴν ἄγειν οἱ πολλοὶ τοὺς νέους, ἄγουσι δ᾽ ἐπὶ τοὐναντίον· οὔτε γὰρ ἂν ἄνδρα που ἑωράκαμεν ὅντιν᾽ οἱ νῦν σοφισταὶ ἀγαθὸν ἐποίησαν, οὔτε γράμματα παρέχονται ἐξ ὧν χρὴ ἀγαθοὺς γίγνεσθαι, ἀλλὰ περὶ μὲν τῶν ματαίων πολλὰ αὐτοῖς γέγραπται, ἀφ᾽ ὧν τοῖς νέοις αἱ μὲν ἡδοναὶ κεναί, ἀρετὴ δ᾽ οὐκ ἔνι· διατρίβειν δ᾽ ἄλλως παρέχει τοῖς ἐλπίσασί τι ἐξ αὐτῶν μαθήσεσθαι μάτην καὶ ἑτέρων κωλύει χρησίμων καὶ διδάσκει κακά. Xen. Cyn. 13. 1-2 I am surprised at the sophistai, as they are called, because, though most of them profess to lead the young to virtue they lead them to the very opposite. We have never seen anywhere the man whose goodness was due to the sophistai of the present day. Neither do their writings tend to make men good: but they have written many books on frivolous subjects, books that offer the young empty pleasures, but put no virtue into them. To read them in the hope of learning something from them is mere waste of time, and they keep one from useful occupations and teach what is bad. Xenophon begins with a tirade against a group of teachers whom he labels sophistai. Not only were they actively harmful as teachers: even their written works would lead their students towards bad habits. He goes on to develop his characterisation of their works: 104 περὶ δὲ ὧν γράφουσιν, ὅτι τὰ μὲν ῥήματα αὐτοῖς ἐζήτηται, γνῶμαι δὲ ὀρθῶς ἔχουσαι, αἷς ἂν παιδεύοιντο οἱ νεώτεροι ἐπ᾽ ἀρετήν, οὐδαμοῦ. Xen. Cyn. 13. 3 As for the style of their writings, I complain that the language is far-fetched, and there is no trace in them of wholesome maxims (gnōmai) by which the young might be trained to virtue. Xenophon here contrasts the language of the sophistai with the proverbial wisdom of which he approves. 33 He then develops the difference between them by laying out his own thoughts about education: ἐγὼ δὲ ἰδιώτης μέν εἰμι, οἶδα δὲ ὅτι κράτιστον μέν ἐστι παρὰ τῆς αὑτοῦ φύσεως τὸ ἀγαθὸν διδάσκεσθαι, δεύτερον δὲ παρὰ τῶν ἀληθῶς ἀγαθόν τι ἐπισταμένων μᾶλλον ἢ ὑπὸ τῶν ἐξαπατᾶν τέχνην ἐχόντων. ἴσως οὖν τοῖς μὲν ὀνόμασιν οὐ σεσοφισμένως λέγω· οὐδὲ γὰρ ζητῶ τοῦτο· ὧν δὲ δέονται εἰς ἀρετὴν οἱ καλῶς πεπαιδευμένοι ὀρθῶς ἐγνωσμένα ζητῶ λέγειν· ὀνόματα μὲν γὰρ οὐκ ἂν παιδεύσειε, γνῶμαι δέ, εἰ καλῶς ἔχοιεν. ψέγουσι δὲ καὶ ἄλλοι πολλοὶ τοὺς νῦν σοφιστὰς καὶ οὐ τοὺς φιλοσόφους, ὅτι ἐν τοῖς ὀνόμασι σοφίζονται, οὐκ ἐν τοῖς νοήμασιν. Xen. Cyn. 13. 4-6 I am but a layman (idiōtēs), but I know that the best thing is to be taught what is good by one's own nature, and the next best thing is to get it from those who really know something good instead of being taught by masters of the art of deception. I daresay that I do not express myself in the language of a sophistēs; in fact, that is not my object: my object is rather to give utterance to wholesome thoughts that will meet the needs of readers well educated in virtue. For words will not educate, but 33 For the connection of gnōmai with age and experience, see Ar. Rhet. 2. 21. 9. 105 maxims, if well found. Many others besides myself blame the sophistai of our generation- and not the philosophoi- because the wisdom they profess consists of names and not of thoughts. Here, Xenophon identifies himself as an idiōtēs- that is, as a ‘private person’ or ‘layman,’ as opposed to a professional. He treats education itself as a sort of secondary good: though it is fine to be taught what is good by someone who knows, it is better to be taught by one’s own nature. Xenophon thus appears to value self-sufficiency over reliance on others- a tenet that was in-keeping with contemporary aristocratic ideology. 34 The worst thing, on Xenophon’s account, was to be deceived as to what is good by those who practise the art of deception- namely, the sophistai. Xenophon pointedly distances the figure of the philosophos from that of the sophistēs. Alluding to the etymological connection between the word sophistēs and that of sophia (‘wisdom’), he suggests that the sophistai are wise (σοφίζονται) in name alone, and not with respect to their thoughts. Xenophon presents himself as a kind of everyman, in contrast to the sophistai, who are characterised as professionals. His aims thus differ from theirs: οὐ λανθάνει δέ με ὅτι καλῶς καὶ ἑξῆς γεγραμμένα φήσει τις ἴσως τῶν τοιούτων οὐ καλῶς οὐδ᾽ ἑξῆς γεγράφθαι· ῥᾴδιον γὰρ ἔσται αὐτοῖς τὸ ταχὺ μὴ ὀρθῶς μέμψασθαι: καίτοι γέγραπταί γε οὕτως, ἵνα ὀρθῶς ἔχῃ, καὶ μὴ σοφιστικοὺς ποιῇ ἀλλὰ σοφοὺς καὶ ἀγαθούς· οὐ γὰρ δοκεῖν αὐτὰ βούλομαι μᾶλλον ἢ εἶναι χρήσιμα, ἵνα ἀνεξέλεγκτα ᾖ εἰς ἀεί. οἱ σοφισταὶ δ᾽ ἐπὶ τῷ ἐξαπατᾶν λέγουσι καὶ γράφουσιν ἐπὶ τῷ ἑαυτῶν κέρδει, καὶ οὐδένα οὐδὲν ὠφελοῦσιν· οὐδὲ γὰρ σοφὸς αὐτῶν ἐγένετο οὐδεὶς οὐδ᾽ ἔστιν, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἀρκεῖ ἑκάστῳ σοφιστὴν κληθῆναι, ὅ ἐστιν ὄνειδος παρά γε εὖ φρονοῦσι. Xen. Cyn. 13. 6-8 34 For an expression of this aristocratic ideology, see Ar. Econ. 1343a. 106 I am well aware that someone, perhaps one of this set, will say that what is well and methodically written is not well and methodically written- for hasty and false censure will come easily to them. But my aim in writing has been to produce sound work that will make men not wiseacres (sophistikous), but wise and good. For I wish my work not to seem useful, but to be so, that it may stand for all time unrefuted. The sophistai talk to deceive and write for their own gain, and they do no benefit to anyone: for there was not ever a wise man amongst them- no, it was enough for each of them to be called a sophistēs, which is a term of reproach among men of good sense. Xenophon presents the sophistai as charlatans who are concerned only with their own profit. While their students came merely to resemble the sophistai themselves, he was trying to lead the young towards virtue. He suggests that his rivals revelled in the title sophistēs, while men of good sense actually regarded it as a term of reproach. Xenophon ends his tirade with this piece of advice to his readers: τὰ μὲν οὖν τῶν σοφιστῶν παραγγέλματα παραινῶ φυλάττεσθαι, τὰ δὲ τῶν φιλοσόφων ἐνθυμήματα μὴ ἀτιμάζειν· οἱ μὲν γὰρ σοφισταὶ πλουσίους καὶ νέους θηρῶνται, οἱ δὲ φιλόσοφοι πᾶσι κοινοὶ καὶ φίλοι· τύχας δὲ ἀνδρῶν οὔτε τιμῶσιν οὔτε ἀτιμάζουσι. Xen. Cyn. 13. 9. So, my advice is: beware of the precepts of the sophistai, but do not despise the arguments of the philosophoi. For the sophistai hunt after the rich and the young, but the philosophoi are friends to all alike: and as for men’s fortunes, they neither honour nor despise them. 107 The contrast drawn here between sophistēs and philosophos seems to owe much to Plato’s Sophist. As in the Sophist, the sophistēs is described as a kind of hunter of the young and the wealthy (Pl. Soph. 231d); he is said not to be a true wise man, only a pretender to the title (Pl. Soph. 268c); and he is distinguished from the philosophos, whose claims to wisdom are treated more seriously (Pl. Soph. 253c). There is a clear moral difference between the philosophoi and the sophistai. According to Xenophon, the sophistai are motivated by a desire for personal gain, while the philosophoi are indifferent to the wealth of others. 35 It is for this reason that the sophistai must be avoided and the philosophoi treated with respect. Xenophon’s presentation of the sophistai and the philosophoi here is inseparable from his own self-presentation. This is one reason why we must be wary of interpreting it as straightforward historical testimony about the sophistai. I think his rhetorical strategy here is better interpreted in light of the anthropological distinction between the long-term and short- term transactional orders. Xenophon associates the sophistai with individual gain and the subversion of the community’s long-term health. Their students do not become good, but the opposite. The philosophoi, on the other hand, are presented as people who uphold the long- term transactional order. Instead of pursuing their own selfish interests, they are friends (φίλοι) to all alike. By castigating the sophistai and treating the philosophoi with reverence, Xenophon implicitly links himself to the men of good sense (εὖ φρονοῦσι, Xen. Cyn. 13. 8), who despise the sophistai, and, indeed, to the philosophoi themselves. 35 Interestingly, Xenophon praises the philosophoi because they are friends to all alike, and do not solely seek to associate with the young and the wealthy. His attitude contrasts with that of Plato’s Socrates in the Meno, who suggests that the sophistai are common (κοινοί) to all because they offer their services in exchange for money, and thus in principle to anyone. I would suggest that Xenophon’s characterisation of the philosophoi owes something to his comparatively greater approval of the Athenian democracy. For him, all Athenians should regard one another as philoi- as if they were implicated in a vast network of gift-exchange- instead of seeking to make money out of one another. He would thus have extended the logic of the elitist ideology to include all ethnic Athenians. For the tendency of fourth-century Athenians, whether rich or poor, to present their relationships to each other in terms of gift-exchange, see Ober (1991), 192-247. For the tendency of fourth- century Athenians to regard themselves as being a distinctive racial group, see Lape (2010). 108 To whom would this rhetoric have appealed? As Leslie Kurke has pointed out, not everyone in Xenophon’s society would have agreed as to which kinds of exchange upheld the community’s long-term health, and which ones undermined it. 36 We should thus be sensitive to the ways in which the philosophos-sophistēs distinction can be related to contemporary politics. It should be noted that the sophistai are firmly linked to the economy and to the realm of personal profit (κέρδος). But the motives of the philosophoi are left ambiguous: while the sophistai are straightforwardly out for their own financial gain, the philosophoi neither honour nor dishonour the fortunes of other men. The philosophoi thus seem to have an obscure relation to exchange. At the same time, they are said to be ‘friends’ (φίλοι) to all, which suggests that they have relatively close relationships with their students- perhaps relationships of reciprocity or gift-exchange- and that they do not limit their followers to the young and rich. Xenophon thus describes the relationship between a philosophos and his student in reassuringly vague terms. It is not clear what kinds of exchanges they are involved in, or indeed whether there is an ‘exchange’ between them at all. This mystification of the character of the relationship between student and teacher is reminiscent of what Kurke sees in the discourse of the hetaira. As Kurke argues, … the hetaira… is an invention of the symposium; as her name implies, this is her proper sphere. Within the “anti-city” of the elite symposium, the institutional and discursive category of the hetaira participates in the complete exclusion of the public sphere, especially the city’s monetarized 36 Kurke (1999), 19. 109 economy. Instead, the impulse to mystify economic relations for sex generates the category of the hetaira within the framework of gift-exchange. Kurke (1999), 181-2. For Kurke, the category of the hetaira served to distance the world of the elite symposium from the city and its institutions, especially that of the market. The hetaira, who would participate in exchanges of gifts and favours with her friends (φίλοι), was to be distinguished from the pornē, who was in principle available to anyone who had the money. By differentiating between hetairai and pornai, the aristocratic symposium shielded itself and its activities from identification with those that were carried out within the public sphere. 37 I would suggest that Xenophon’s rhetoric here works in much the same way. The category of the philosophos obscures the character of the relations between student and teacher, presenting education as a process that occurs between friends. The sophistēs, on the other hand, represents the corrupting force of the market, where deception was thought to have been rife. 38 The figure of the philosophos thus serves to represent the private realm and to shield it from the public sphere, and especially its monetary economy. We might view Aristotle’s Sophistical Refutations in a similar light. This text has also been treated as a piece of evidence for the practices of the sophistai. As a result, commentators have often overlooked the ways in which this text contributes to Aristotle’s self-presentation. 37 Kurke (1999), 219. 38 See Hdt. 1. 153. 1-2. For an excellent discussion of this equation of trade with deceit, see Kurke (1999), 73-4. 110 Philosophoi and sophistai in Aristotle Though Aristotle is less explicitly concerned about his self-presentation than the Xenophon of the Cynegeticus, it is clear from the opening pages of the Sophistical Refutations that he regards himself as something other than a sophistēs. He begins his discussion of ‘sophistical refutations’ (σοφιστικῶν ἐλέγχων, Ar. Soph. Ref. 164a20) by defining the object of his enquiry. A ‘sophistical refutation’ appears to be a refutation but is really a fallacy (φαινομένων μὲν ἐλέγχων ὄντων δὲ παραλογισμῶν). Aristotle defines a refutation by contrasting it with reasoning (συλλογισμὸς): where reasoning is a combination of statements made in such a way as to cause the assertion of something other than those statements, and as a result of those statements, a refutation is reasoning accompanied by a contradiction of the conclusion. According to Aristotle, some refutations do not actually lead to a contradiction of a conclusion, though they may appear to do so. This generally occurs when there is some ambiguity surrounding the relationship between a name or noun and the thing to which it refers. Aristotle notes that there are finite number of names in language, but an infinite number of things in the world: thus, on his reasoning, a single name may signify a number of things. Owing to the fact that names are not univocal, an expert at argumentation may appear to refute an opponent, when in fact they have merely exploited the ambiguity inherent in a word and have constructed an apparent refutation. On these grounds, Aristotle is able to argue that sophistical refutations are possible. Since sophistical refutations are possible, so are those who practise them. What is more, according to Aristotle, there are reasons why a person would wish to practise them: 111 ἐπεί δ᾽ ἐστί τισι μᾶλλον πρὸ ἔργου τὸ δοκεῖν εἶναι σοφοῖς ἢ τὸ εἶναι καὶ μὴ δοκεῖν (ἔστι γὰρ ἡ σοφιστικὴ φαινομένη σοφία οὖσα δ᾽ οὔ, καὶ ὁ σοφιστὴς χρηματιστὴς απὸ φαινομένης σοφίας ἀλλ᾽οὐκ οὔσης), δῆλον ὅτι ἀναγκαῖον τούτοις καὶ τὸ τοῦ σοφοῦ ἔργον δοκεῖν ποιεῖν μᾶλλον ἢ ποιεῖν καὶ μὴ δοκεῖν. Ar. Soph. Ref. 165a21-25 But since in the eyes of some people it is more profitable to seem to be wise than to be wise without seeming to be so (for the sophistic art consists in apparent and not real wisdom, and the sophistēs is one who makes money from apparent and not real wisdom), it is clear that for these people it is essential to perform the function of a wise man rather than actually to perform it without seeming to do so. For such sophistai, says Aristotle, the sophistical refutation has a real practical value, as it enables them to appear wise without really being so. They can thus use their apparent wisdom in order to make money. As in the passage from the Cynegeticus, Aristotle’s characterisation of the sophistēs owes much to the paradigm offered by the xenos in Plato’s Sophist. Where the xenos defined the sophistēs as the imitator of the wise man (μιμητὴς τοῦ σοφοῦ, Pl. Soph. 265c), Aristotle defines the sophistēs as someone who appears to be a wise man (σοφός) but is not. Aristotle would thus appear to repeat the Platonic gesture that separated the sophistēs from the sophos. However, Aristotle also describes the sophistēs as a money-maker (χρηματιστὴς). Aristotle thus follows the Plato of the Republic in reserving the term sophistēs for those who took payment in coin as compensation for their services. In the Sophistical Refutations, then, we find a distinction between hē sophistikē and sophia. In the fourth book of the Metaphysics, Aristotle makes it clear that this amounts to a 112 distinction between hē sophistikē and philosophia. The passage in question bears a close resemblance to what we saw in the Sophistical Refutations: οἱ γὰρ διαλεκτικοὶ καὶ σοφισταὶ τὸ αὐτὸ μὲν ὑποδύονται σχῆμα τῷ φιλοσόφῳ· ἡ γὰρ σοφιστικὴ φαινομένη μόνον σοφία ἐστί, καὶ οἱ διαλεκτικοὶ διαλέγονται περὶ ἁπάντων, κοινὸν δὲ πᾶσι τὸ ὄν ἐστιν, διαλέγονται δὲ περὶ τούτων δῆλον ὅτι διὰ τὸ τῆς φιλοσοφίας ταῦτα εἶναι οἰκεῖα. περὶ μὲν γὰρ τὸ αὐτὸ γένος στρέφεται ἡ σοφιστικὴ καὶ ἡ διαλεκτικὴ τῇ φιλοσοφίᾳ, ἀλλὰ διαφέρει τῆς μὲν τῷ τρόπῳ τῆς δυνάμεως, τῆς δὲ τοῦ βίου τῇ προαιρέσει· ἔστι δὲ ἡ διαλεκτικὴ πειραστικὴ περὶ ὧν ἡ φιλοσοφία γνωριστική, ἡ δὲ σοφιστικὴ φαινομένη, οὖσα δ᾽ οὔ. Ar. Met. 1004b17-26 Dialecticians and sophistai assume the same guise as the philosophos: for sophistry is wisdom in appearance only, and dialecticians discuss all subjects, and being is common to all things; but evidently their dialectic embraces these subjects because these are proper to philosophy. For sophistry and dialectic turn on the same class of things as philosophy, but this differs from dialectic in the nature of the faculty required and from sophistry with respect to its outlook on life: for dialectic is merely critical about things while philosophy claims to know about them, and sophistry seems to be philosophy, but is not. As this passage makes clear, the Aristotle of the Metaphysics has a decidedly different conception of philosophy from that of Plato. For Aristotle, philosophy is distinct from both sophistry and dialectic, while the Plato of the Sophist presents dialectic as the activity characteristic of the philosophos. 1 However, their understanding of the relationship between sophistry and philosophy is the same in all its essentials. Sophistry, on their view, is merely an apparent philosophy: it is not the real thing. 1 Pl. Soph. 253c-e. 113 In Aristotle, then, the philosophos is further differentiated from the sophistēs. The two are not just opposed to each other: the philosophos is even distinguished from the dialectician. However, Aristotle seems to retain the idea that the sophistēs is defined by his involvement in commodity-exchange. He does not appear to question the stability of this definition or its grounding in reality. In Xenophon and Aristotle, then, we find two thinkers whose self-presentation is deeply implicated in their characterisation of the sophistai. Both emphasise the connection between the sophistai and monetary exchange, whilst distancing themselves from both. At the same time, they link themselves to the notion of philosophia. I shall now consider the self-presentation of a thinker within a dramatic work: namely, the character of Socrates in Xenophon’s Memorabilia. Like the other thinkers that we have considered thus far, Xenophon’s Socrates is someone who wishes to distance himself from the practice of commodity-exchange. He is also someone who disdains the label sophistēs. I will then consider the self-presentation of Xenophon’s Socrates in the Symposium, which is also a dramatic work. There, Socrates will distance himself from the so- called sophistai and align himself with the notion of philosophia. Commodity-exchange and gift-exchange in Xenophon’s Memorabilia Xenophon’s Memorabilia is notable for being the only extant example of a Sōkratikos logos by a fourth-century author other than Plato. While Plato’s Sōkratikoi logoi tend to take the form of a dialogue, the Memorabilia is delivered from a first-person perspective. The 114 Xenophontic narrator begins his account by defending Socrates from the charges for which he was condemned at his trial in 399 BCE. Whilst defending Socrates from the accusation that he corrupted the young, the Xenophontic narrator makes a claim for Socrates’ actual practices with respect to his associates: οὐ μὴν οὐδ᾽ ἐρασιχρημάτους γε τοὺς συνόντας ἐποίει. τῶν μὲν γὰρ ἄλλων ἐπιθυμιῶν ἔπαυε, τοὺς δ᾽ ἑαυτοῦ ἐπιθυμοῦντας οὐκ ἐπράττετο χρήματα. Xen. Mem. 1. 2. 5-6 Nor did he make his companions desirous of money. For while he checked their other desires, he would not make money out of their own desire for his companionship. Here, Xenophon’s Socrates seems to bear some comparison to the Platonic Socrates. Neither of them charged their companions fees for their association with them. But Xenophon’s Socrates has rather stronger views than the Platonic Socrates as to why one should not charge fees for one’s companionship: τούτου δ᾽ ἀπεχόμενος ἐνόμιζεν ἐλευθερίας ἐπιμελεῖσθαι· τοὺς δὲ λαμβάνοντας τῆς ὁμιλίας μισθὸν ἀνδραποδιστὰς ἑαυτῶν ἀπεκάλει διὰ τὸ ἀναγκαῖον αὐτοῖς εἶναι διαλέγεσθαι παρ᾽ ὧν ἂν λάβοιεν τὸν μισθόν. Xen. Mem. 1. 2. 6. He thought that this restraint ensured his liberty, and he denounced those who took a wage for their companionship as people who enslaved themselves: for it was necessary for them to converse with those from whom they took their wages. The thinking of Xenophon’s Socrates is perhaps more difficult to reconstruct than it might appear at first sight. He seems to attribute his own freedom (ἐλευθερία) to the fact that 115 he does not take fees from his companions, while those who did take fees are said to be their own enslavers. But why should one have enslaved oneself merely by demanding money for one’s companionship? Xenophon’s Socrates has an answer: those who charged fees had to converse with those from whom they took their wages. By implication, those who did not charge fees were not subject to this compulsion. But where does this compulsion to converse come from? And why does it have such disastrous effects? A passage from Aristophanes’ Clouds may shed some light on this conundrum. Towards the middle of the play, the main character, Strepsiades, is persuaded by the Chorus of Cloud-goddesses to send his son to the school of Socrates. As Strepsiades hurries offstage to fetch his son, the Clouds call after him: ἆρ᾽ αἰσθάνει πλεῖστα δι᾽ ἡμᾶς ἀγάθ᾽ αὐτίχ᾽ ἕξων μόνας θεῶν; ὡς ἕτοιμος ὅδ᾽ ἐστὶν ἅπαντα δρᾶν ὅσ᾽ ἂν κελεύῃς. Ar. Cl. 804-7 Do you perceive how many blessings will soon be yours because of us, alone of the gods? For this man [Socrates] is ready to do whatever you bid him. 2 The Chorus seem to be claiming that Socrates will do anything (ἅπαντα δρᾶν) that Strepsiades tells him to do. But in context, this claim has rather sinister undertones. 2 I follow Landfester (1975) and Sommerstein (1982) in believing that these lines are addressed to Strepsiades. I thus take it that the word hode refers to Socrates, who would still be on stage. For a fuller discussion, see Landfester (1975), 386-7. For an alternative view, see Dover (1968), p. 197. Dover argues that the Chorus are addressing Socrates and that hode refers to Strepsiades, since 809-11 are clearly addressed to Socrates. Nevertheless, he notes that lines 804-7 are ‘equally appropriate whether addressed to Socrates or to Strepsiades’ (Dover 1968, 197). 116 Strepsiades wants Socrates to teach his son rhetoric in order that he, Strepsiades, may win any future lawsuits brought against him by his many creditors. Strepsiades knows that he is doing wrong when he seeks to avoid paying his debts, but he acts upon his hare-brained scheme anyway. Socrates is also fully aware of Strepsiades’ intentions. However, his consciousness of Strepsiades’ questionable character does not prevent him from agreeing to teach Strepsiades’ son- in exchange for a large fee. The Clouds suggest that Socrates was used to such transactions: σὺ δ᾽ ἀνδρὸς ἐκπεπληγμένου καὶ φανερῶς ἐπηρμένου γνοὺς ἀπολάψεις ὅ τι πλεῖστον δύνασαι, ταχέως: φιλεῖ γάρ πως τὰ τοιαῦθ᾽ ἑτέρᾳ τρέπεσθαι. 809-11 As for you, since you know that the man has been driven out of his senses and is clearly very excited, you will quickly lap up as much as you can: for these things often turn out otherwise than expected. The Chorus state baldly that Socrates knows (γνοῦς) what he is doing. They suggest that Socrates has some experience in conning men like Strepsiades. Since Socrates knows that transactions of this kind often ‘turn out otherwise than expected,’ they expect that he will make as much money from Strepsiades as he can in as short a time as possible. Both Strepsiades and Socrates are presented as being morally reprehensible. But Socrates is said to be at Strepsiades’ beck and call, apparently as a direct consequence of his profession. I would suggest that this is because he demands monetary payment for his services as a teacher, and not some other form of payment. Before considering the specific significance of money in these contexts, let us first ask what alternative form of ‘payment’ 117 Socrates could have taken. Xenophon’s narrator gives us a possible answer when he tells us how Socrates marvelled at those who taught for money: ἐθαύμαζε δ᾽ εἴ τις ἀρετὴν ἐπαγγελλόμενος ἀργύριον πράττοιτο καὶ μὴ νομίζοι τὸ μέγιστον κέρδος ἕξειν φίλον ἀγαθὸν κτησάμενος, ἀλλὰ φοβοῖτο μὴ ὁ γενόμενος καλὸς κἀγαθὸς τῷ τὰ μέγιστα εὐεργετήσαντι μὴ τὴν μεγίστην χάριν ἕξοι. Xen. Mem. 1. 2. 7 He was amazed that anyone should make money by the profession of virtue, and should not reflect that his highest reward would be the gain of a good friend; as though he who became a true gentleman could fail to feel deep gratitude for a benefit so great. The priorities of Xenophon’s Socrates become instantly clear in this passage. He regards a relationship with a good man (καλὸς κἀγαθὸς)- one that is characterised by the exchange of charis- as the highest good. Money, by contrast, would be an inferior good. Xenophon’s Socrates thus seems to prize the relationships of reciprocity characteristic of gift- exchange over participation in the monetary economy. Like the Platonic Socrates, Xenophon’s Socrates seems to subscribe to several aspects of elitist ideology. He abstains from monetary transactions and engages in relationships of gift-exchange. Perhaps this can help to explain why he thinks that those who teach for pay have to consort with those from whom they take a fee. From an elitist perspective, those who taught for pay made their services accessible to anyone who had the money- in principle, at least. Thus, like Aristophanes’ Socrates, they risked attracting thoroughly reprehensible customers. But the decision to teach for pay in the first place also seemed to say something about the character of the teacher. Aristophanes’ Chorus present Socrates as someone who is motivated solely by greed. He does not care if his student has obviously malign intentions, 118 nor does he care whether his student actually derives any benefit from his teachings: he simply wants to extract as much money from his customer as possible in as short a time as he is able. Monetary transactions are presented as the means by which a person can rapidly accumulate wealth, whilst dispensing of the need to establish long-term relationships of mutual exchange. Xenophon’s Socrates and Aristophanes’ Chorus both disapprove of those who value the former over the latter. At the same time, they seem to attest to the temptation that money offers to those who would gain without limit. This framework can help us to understand Socrates’ confrontations with Antiphon later on in the first book of the Memorabilia. Xenophon’s narrator tells us that Antiphon was a sophistēs who wanted to draw Socrates’ companions away from him, in order that he could associate with them himself. Antiphon thus attempted to undermine Socrates’ teachings with reference to his austere lifestyle: ὦ Σώκρατες, ἐγὼ μὲν ᾤμην τοὺς φιλοσοφοῦντας εὐδαιμονεστέρους χρῆναι γίγνεσθαι· σὺ δέ μοι δοκεῖς τἀναντία τῆς φιλοσοφίας ἀπολελαυκέναι. ζῇς γοῦν οὕτως ὡς οὐδ᾽ ἂν εἷς δοῦλος ὑπὸ δεσπότῃ διαιτώμενος μείνειε· σῖτά τε σιτῇ καὶ ποτὰ πίνεις τὰ φαυλότατα, καὶ ἱμάτιον ἠμφίεσαι οὐ μόνον φαῦλον, ἀλλὰ τὸ αὐτὸ θέρους τε καὶ χειμῶνος, ἀνυπόδητός τε καὶ ἀχίτων διατελεῖς. καὶ μὴν χρήματά γε οὐ λαμβάνεις, ἃ καὶ κτωμένους εὐφραίνει καὶ κεκτημένους ἐλευθεριώτερόν τε καὶ ἥδιον ποιεῖ ζῆν. εἰ οὖν ὥσπερ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἔργων οἱ διδάσκαλοι τοὺς μαθητὰς μιμητὰς ἑαυτῶν ἀποδεικνύουσιν, οὕτω καὶ σὺ τοὺς συνόντας διαθήσεις, νόμιζε κακοδαιμονίας διδάσκαλος εἶναι. Xen. Mem. 1. 6. 2-3 Socrates, I used to think that those who loved wisdom would necessarily become happier. But you seem to have derived the opposite from philosophy. For example, you are living a life that would drive even a slave to desert his master. Your meat and drink are of the poorest: the cloak you wear is 119 not only a poor thing, but is never changed summer or winter; and you never wear shoes or tunic. Besides you refuse to take money, the mere getting of which is a joy, while its possession makes one live more freely and sweetly. Now the professors of other subjects try to make their pupils copy their teachers: if you too intend to make your companions do that, you must consider yourself a professor of misfortune. When it comes to the subject of money-making, Xenophon’s Antiphon seems to hold the opposite view to that of Socrates. Where Socrates thought that his liberty was ensured by his abstention from commodity-exchange, Antiphon thought that the possession of money made one’s life freer. Antiphon thus appears to regard money-making as a good in itself. Socrates responds to each of Antiphon’s barbs with a defence of his own position. He points out that he, unlike Antiphon, is not obliged to talk with anyone against his will, since he did not demand a fee (μισθὸν, Xen. Mem. 1. 6. 5) for his companionship. What is more, his self-imposed austerity meant that he had need of very little. Where Antiphon seemed to think that happiness consisted in luxury and extravagance, Socrates thought that it consisted in having as few desires as possible. Socrates is thus characterised as someone who values moderation and restraint over profit. On another occasion, Socrates offered a coarser rebuttal of a similar criticism from Antiphon. Antiphon had made the following argument: ὦ Σώκρατες, ἐγώ τοί σε δίκαιον μὲν νομίζω, σοφὸν δὲ οὐδ᾽ ὁπωστιοῦν· δοκεῖς δέ μοι καὶ αὐτὸς τοῦτο γιγνώσκειν· οὐδένα γοῦν τῆς συνουσίας ἀργύριον πράττῃ. καίτοι τό γε ἱμάτιον ἢ τὴν οἰκίαν ἢ ἄλλο τι ὧν κέκτησαι νομίζων ἀργυρίου ἄξιον εἶναι οὐδενὶ ἂν μὴ ὅτι προῖκα δοίης, ἀλλ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ἔλαττον τῆς ἀξίας λαβών. δῆλον δὴ ὅτι εἰ καὶ τὴν συνουσίαν ᾤου τινὸς 120 ἀξίαν εἶναι, καὶ ταύτης ἂν οὐκ ἔλαττον τῆς ἀξίας ἀργύριον ἐπράττου. δίκαιος μὲν οὖν ἂν εἴης, ὅτι οὐκ ἐξαπατᾷς ἐπὶ πλεονεξίᾳ, σοφὸς δὲ οὐκ ἄν, μηδενός γε ἄξια ἐπιστάμενος. Xen. Mem. 1. 6. 11-12 Socrates, I for my part believe you to be a just, but by no means a wise man. And I think you realise it yourself. Anyhow, you decline to take money for your society. Yet if you believed your cloak or house or anything you possess to be worth money, you would not part with it for free (proika) or even for less than its value. Clearly, then, if you set any value on your society, you would insist on getting the proper price for that too. It may well be that you are a just man because you do not cheat people through desire for gain (pleonexia); but wise you cannot be, since your knowledge is not worth anything. As in his earlier speech, Antiphon evaluates a person’s wisdom in terms of how much money they make from it. 3 Since Socrates did not make money from his wisdom, it would seem that he was not wise at all. Socrates’ response shows that he subscribes to a completely different set of values: ὦ Ἀντιφῶν, παρ᾽ ἡμῖν νομίζεται τὴν ὥραν καὶ τὴν σοφίαν ὁμοίως μὲν καλόν, ὁμοίως δὲ αἰσχρὸν διατίθεσθαι εἶναι. τήν τε γὰρ ὥραν ἐὰν μέν τις ἀργυρίου πωλῇ τῷ βουλομένῳ, πόρνον αὐτὸν ἀποκαλοῦσιν, ἐὰν δέ τις, ὃν ἂν γνῷ καλόν τε κἀγαθὸν ἐραστὴν ὄντα, τοῦτον φίλον ἑαυτῷ ποιῆται, σώφρονα νομίζομεν· καὶ τὴν σοφίαν ὡσαύτως τοὺς μὲν ἀργυρίου τῷ βουλομένῳ πωλοῦντας σοφιστὰς ὥσπερ πόρνους ἀποκαλοῦσιν, ὅστις δὲ ὃν ἂν γνῷ εὐφυᾶ ὄντα διδάσκων ὅ τι ἂν ἔχῃ ἀγαθὸν φίλον ποιεῖται, τοῦτον νομίζομεν, ἃ τῷ καλῷ κἀγαθῷ πολίτῃ προσήκει, ταῦτα ποιεῖν. Xen. Mem. 1. 6. 13 3 He would thus resemble Plato’s Hippias in the Hippias Major. 121 Antiphon, it is common opinion among us in regard to beauty and wisdom that there is an honourable and a shameful way of bestowing them. For if someone sells his to beauty for money to all comers, people call him a prostitute (pornon); but if someone knows that a gentleman (kalon te k’agathon) desires him, and subsequently makes this man his friend, we consider him prudent. So it is with wisdom. Those who offer it to all comers for money, like prostitutes, are known as sophistai, but we think that he who makes a friend of one whom he knows to be of a good natural disposition, and teaches him all the good he can, does what befits a citizen and a gentleman. With this cutting response, Socrates reveals himself once again as someone who values the relationships of reciprocity characteristic of gift-exchange over monetary gain. He also associates the term sophistēs with the practice of commodity-exchange. Like Plato’s Anytus, Socrates seems to think that the sophistai are excluded in advance from the ranks of the kaloi k’agathoi. Like pornoi (the masculine form of pornē), they offer their services to all comers, instead of judiciously selecting good- or noble- companions. 4 Socrates’ analogy here gives us an insight into the concerns that may have motivated the invention of the philosophos-sophistēs distinction. Since the sophistai offer their services in exchange for monetary payment, their services are in principle available to anyone who wants them. Socrates has disdain for those who behave thus: in his view, they are no better than common prostitutes. He values people who show themselves to be good judges of character and who establish relationships with others on this basis. Xenophon’s Socrates displays a similar attitude at the beginning of the Symposium. We are told that Callias of Athens was on his way to his house in the Peiraeus for a 4 This equation of sophistai with pornoi justifies my use of Kurke’s distinction between pornai and hetairai as a parallel for the distinction between sophistai and philosophoi. 122 symposium, when he came across Socrates with a group of his friends. Callias tried to persuade them to join his party, coaxing them with words of praise. Socrates was far from convinced by Callias’ flattery: ἀεὶ σὺ ἐπισκώπτεις ἡμᾶς καταφρονῶν, ὅτι σὺ μὲν Πρωταγόρᾳ τε πολὺ ἀργύριον δέδωκας ἐπὶ σοφίᾳ καὶ Γοργίᾳ καὶ Προδίκῳ καὶ ἄλλοις πολλοῖς, ἡμᾶς δ᾽ ὁρᾷς αὐτουργούς τινας τῆς φιλοσοφίας ὄντας. Xen. Symp. 5 ‘You are always looking down on us, for you have given lots of money for wisdom to Protagoras, Gorgias, Prodicus, and many others, but you see us as what you might call amateurs (autourgous) in philosophy.’ I have followed E. C. Marchant and O. J. Todd in translating autourgoi as ‘amateurs,’ but autourgos usually means someone who works on their own land. Socrates seems to be drawing a contrast between those who exchange their wisdom for money and those who cultivate it for themselves. In his view, Callias respects men of the former variety, and disdains the latter. Socrates himself undoubtedly holds the opposite point of view. In the Memorabilia and Symposium, then, we find further evidence that the opposition between philosophos and sophistēs is related to the politics of exchange. Like Plato’s Socrates, Xenophon’s narrator valorises gift-exchange over commodity-exchange, associating the figure of Socrates with the former and the sophistai with the latter. But his Socrates also values the self-sufficiency of the autourgos over the mercantilism of Protagoras- a position that is fully consistent with aristocratic ideology. 5 5 For the aristocratic ideology of self-sufficiency, see Ar. Econ. 1343a25b-2. I shall discuss this passage in greater detail in the next chapter. 123 Thus far, we have looked at authors who subscribe to the opposition between gift- exchange and commodity-exchange, and who seem to differentiate the philosophos and the sophistēs along those lines. In the next section, we will consider two fourth-century authors who do not seem to regard gift-exchange and commodity-exchange as being opposed: Alcidamas and Isocrates. Recent scholarship in the Classics has focused in particular on the differences between Isocrates and Plato, especially with regard to their respective characterisations of philosophia. But there has been less exploration of their views on the politics of exchange. I propose that we examine the works of Alcidamas and Isocrates with this political background in mind. This may give us a closer understanding of the differences between these writers and those who differentiate sharply between philosophoi and sophistai. Sophistai and philosophoi in fourth-century oratory Let us begin by looking at the opening sentence of Alcidamas’ pamphlet, which now bears the title ‘On the sophists.’ Alcidamas begins his polemical essay thus: ἐπειδή τινες τῶν καλουμένων σοφιστῶν ἱστορίας μὲν και παιδείας ἠμελήκασι καὶ τοῦ δύνασθαι λέγειν ὁμοίως τοῖς ἰδιώταις ἀπείρως ἔχουσι, γράφειν δὲ μεμελετηκότες λόγους καὶ διὰ βιβλίων δεικνύντες τὴν αὑτων σοφίαν σεμνύνονται καὶ μέγα φρονοῦσι, και πολλοστὸν μέρος τῆς ῥητορικῆς κεκτημένοι δυνάμεως ὅλης τῆς τέχνης ἀμφισβητοῦσι, διὰ ταύτην τὴν αἰτίαν ἐπιχειρήσω κατηγορίαν ποιήσασθαι τῶν γραπτῶν λόγων, οὐχ ὡς ἀλλοτρίαν ἐμαυτοῦ τὴν δύναμιν αὐτῶν ἡγούμενος, ἀλλ᾽ ὡς ἐφ᾽ ἑτέροις μεῖζον φρονῶν καὶ τὸ γράφειν ἐν παρέργωι τοῦ <λέγειν> μελετᾶν οἰόμενος χρῆναι, καὶ τοὺς ἐπ᾽ αὐτὸ τοῦτο τὸν βίον 124 καταναλίσκοντας ἀπολεῖπεσθαι πολὺ καὶ ῥητορικῆς και φιλοσοφίας ὑπειληφώς, καὶ πολὺ δικαιότερον ἂν ποιητὰς ἢ σοφιστὰς προσαγορεύεσθαι νομίζων. Alc. Peri Sophistōn 1-2 Since some of those who are called ‘sophistai’ have neglected an enquiring approach and training and have no more experience of being able to make speeches than ordinary people, but, having practised the writing of speeches and demonstrating their cleverness through texts, give themselves airs and think much of themselves, and, having acquired a very small part of an orator’s ability, lay claim to the art as a whole- this is the reason for my setting out to make a case against written speeches, not because I believe that the ability these people have is foreign to me, but because I pride myself more on other grounds, and think that writing ought to be a by-product of the practice of making speeches, and suppose that those who spend their lives on this particular skill have serious shortcomings in both oratorical skill and in philosophy (philosophia), and consider that they would much more justly be described as script-writers (poiētai) than as sophistai. Alcidamas’ primary target is the kind of sophistēs who devotes more attention to the writing of speeches than the performance of them. Like the Socrates of the Phaedrus, he places speech above writing. 6 But we should note that Alcidamas does not differentiate between philosophoi and sophistai: instead, he distinguishes between ‘so-called’ sophistai and true sophistai. Sophistēs for him appears to be a term of praise that has been taken up by those who are unworthy of it. This is why he argues that those who rely on writing are better described as ‘script-writers’ (ποιηταὶ) than sophistai. He also links oratorical skill (ῥητορική) to philosophia, while Plato and Aristotle argue that the two are distinct. 7 6 Pl. Phdr. 275c-e. 7 For the characterisation of rhētorikē as a ‘semblance of a branch of politics’, see Pl. Gorg. 463c-d. For Aristotle’s differentiation of rhetoric, philosophy, and sophistry, see Ar. Rhet. I. 1355b 125 Isocrates makes a similar distinction between types of sophistai in his Antidosis. The passage in which he does so occurs late in this rather lengthy speech, just after he has extolled the virtues of education: ἔχοι δ᾽ ἄν τις πλείω περὶ τούτων εἰπεῖν· ἀλλὰ γὰρ ἢν πολλὰ λίαν λέγω περὶ τῶν παρὰ τοῖς πλείστοις ὁμολογουμένων, δέδοικα μὴ περὶ τῶν ἀμφισβητουμένων ἀπορεῖν δόξω. παυσάμενος οὖν τούτων ἐπ᾽ ἐκείνους τρέψομαι, τοὺς οὐ καταφρονοῦντας μὲν τῆς φιλοσοφίας, πολὺ δὲ πικρότερον κατηγοροῦντας αὐτῆς, καὶ μεταφέροντας τὰς πονηρίας τὰς τῶν φασκόντων μὲν εἶναι σοφιστῶν ἄλλο δέ τι πραττόντων ἐπὶ τοὺς οὐδὲν τῶν αὐτῶν ἐκείνοις ἐπιτηδεύοντας. Isoc. Ant. 215. One might say more about these things, but if I say too much on questions about which most men are agreed, I fear you may suspect that I have little to say on questions which are in dispute. Therefore I shall leave this subject and turn my attention to a class of people who do not, to be sure, condemn philosophy but condemn it much more bitterly since they attribute the iniquities of those who claim (phaskontas) to be sophistai but in practice are far different, to those whose ways have nothing in common with them. Here, Isocrates is making a complicated point to explain why philosophy has received a bad reputation. He implies that there are people who claim to be sophistai, but are in fact troublemakers who are guilty of bad behaviour (πονήρια). It is because of these ‘self- professed’ sophistai that philosophy has a bad name. Like Alcidamas, Isocrates does not distinguish between philosophoi and sophistai. Instead, both regard philosophia as being something that a true sophistēs may pursue. 126 Alcidamas and Isocrates are also quiet when it comes to the subject of teaching for pay. I would suggest that this silence is significant: it seems to me that the authors who insist on the opposition between philosophos and sophistēs also argue that sophistai teach for money. There is some evidence to suggest that Isocrates himself taught for pay. 8 He may thus have had good reason not to insist too strongly on the difference between the two figures- and even to appropriate the terms for his own practices. I think this is an important point because it relates to the reception of Isocrates in the Classical tradition. Isocrates’ conception of philosophy has been criticised for its crudeness, especially in comparison to that of Plato. 9 But, as I have shown, Plato’s construction of philosophy is inseparable from his political standpoint. Isocrates’ own vision, which was much more closely related to the institutions of the Athenian democracy, need not reveal the limitations of his thought, but may instead suggest a difference in his political outlook. 10 I shall now turn to the question of how Isocrates regarded himself. According to Håkan Tell, ‘Isocrates is not a sophist, but fears that the hostility against the sophists will be directed unfairly and indiscriminatingly against himself’ (Tell 2011, 34-5). While Isocrates is certainly keen to avoid the prejudice directed towards the sophistai, he never denies that he is a sophistēs. In this respect, he differs from someone like the Platonic Socrates. 11 Instead, Isocrates seeks to align himself with the good sophistai- that is, the thinkers who were 8 Isoc. Ant. 39. 9 See for example Nehamas (1990), 5. 10 For a different interpretation, see Ford (1993). Ford regards the ‘dispute’ between Plato and Isocrates over the definition of ‘philosophy’ as a debate in which Plato was ultimately victorious (Ford 1993, 41). Plato’s victory, according to Ford, was in part assured by the fact that he ‘enforced the distinction between mere sophists and real philosophers or statesmen’. I would contend that Plato invented the distinction between sophist and philosopher and that his purposes should be understood in the light of Greek politics. 11 For Socrates’ denial that he is a sophistēs, see Pl. Prot. 314d. 127 venerated by the Athenians. He seems to believe that this will secure him a favourable outcome in the fictional trial that forms the background to the Antidosis. Let us verify this by turning to the text in question. Isocrates’ Antidosis is presented as a defence speech in a case brought against him by a man named Lysimachus. Lysimachus is said to have accused Isocrates of teaching young men how to make the weaker cause appear the stronger- the same accusation levelled at Socrates in Plato’s Apology. 12 Isocrates responds by presenting his accuser as a sycophant (συκοφάντης) and himself as a devotee of philosophia. He deplores his own fictional plight towards the end of his speech: ἀγανακτῶ γὰρ ὁρῶν τὴν συκοφαντίαν ἄμεινον τῆς φιλοσοφίας φερομένην, καὶ τὴν μὲν κατηγοροῦσαν, τὴν δὲ κρινομένην. ὃ τίς ἂν τῶν παλαιῶν ἀνδρῶν γενήσεσθαι προσεδόκησεν, ἄλλως τε καὶ παρ᾽ ὑμῖν τοῖς ἐπὶ σοφίᾳ μεῖζον τῶν ἄλλων φρονοῦσιν; οὔκουν ἐπί γε τῶν προγόνων οὕτως εἶχεν, ἀλλὰ τοὺς μὲν καλουμένους σοφιστὰς ἐθαύμαζον καὶ τοὺς συνόντας αὐτοῖς ἐζήλουν, τοὺς δὲ συκοφάντας πλείστων κακῶν αἰτίους ἐνόμιζον εἶναι. Isoc. Ant. 312-3 For I am grieved to see the sycophant's trade faring better than philosophy- the one attacking, the other on the defensive. Who of the men of old could have anticipated that things would come to this pass, in Athens, of all places, where we more than others plume ourselves on our wisdom? Things were not like that in the time of our ancestors; on the contrary, they admired the sophistai, as they called them, and envied the good fortune of their disciples, while they blamed the sycophants for most of their ills. 12 Isoc. Ant. 15; Pl. Ap. 19b. 128 Isocrates here suggests that his current predicament is the result of a modern trend. Where practitioners of philosophia- or sophistai- like himself were admired by earlier generations, they were now being supplanted by sycophants. 13 Isocrates cites evidence to support his claims: μέγιστον δὲ τεκμήριον· Σόλωνα μὲν γάρ, τὸν πρῶτον τῶν πολιτῶν λαβόντα τὴν ἐπωνυμίαν ταύτην, προστάτην ἠξίωσαν τῆς πόλεως εἶναι, περὶ δὲ τῶν συκοφαντῶν χαλεπωτέρους ἢ περὶ τῶν ἄλλων κακουργιῶν τοὺς νόμους ἔθεσαν. Isoc. Ant. 15. 313 You will find the strongest proof of this in the fact that they saw fit to put Solon, who was the first of the Athenians to receive the title of sophistēs, at, the head of the state, while they applied to the sycophants more stringent laws than to other criminals. Isocrates claims that the great Athenian lawgiver Solon was known as a sophistēs and that he was given charge of the city’s affairs. The sycophants, by contrast, were treated more harshly than they were in Isocrates’ day. According to Isocrates, the modern Athenians did not punish sycophants, as their ancestors did, but in fact put them up as legislators for everyone else. With this appeal to ancestral wisdom, he encourages the Athenian jurors to side with him over Lysimachus. I would thus argue that Isocrates’ self-presentation is much more complex than Tell allows. Isocrates leaves open the possibility that he is a sophistēs, so long as sophistēs is understood in the best sense of the word. This, to me, is inseparable from his ambiguous 13 See Isoc. Ant. 220 for Isocrates’ alignment of himself with the sophistai. 129 attitude towards money-making. Isocrates himself was among the richest men in Athens. 14 There is some indication that he received money from his foreign students, but not from Athenian students. 15 But, unlike Plato, he does not condemn those who taught for pay. This does not amount to an endorsement of the practice. As Yun Lee Too has pointed out, Isocrates ‘prefers to present the teacher-student relationship as an extension of a friendship (philia) or a guest-host relationship (xenia)’ (Too 1995, 110). He would thus present his relationships with his students in terms that evoked gift-exchange. But his silence surrounding commodity-exchange contrasts sharply with the condemnations that we find in Plato and Xenophon. A good example of the differences between Isocrates and Plato can be found in the short Isocratean speech which has come to be known as ‘Against the sophists.’ This little polemic is aimed at some unnamed rivals of Isocrates. Early on in the speech, Isocrates criticises the teachers of disputation: οὗτοι τοίνυν εἰς τοῦτο τόλμης ἐληλύθασιν, ὥστε πειρῶνται πείθειν τοὺς νεωτέρους ὡς, ἢν αὐτοῖς πλησιάζωσιν, ἅ τε πρακτέον ἐστὶν εἴσονται καὶ διὰ ταύτης τῆς ἐπιστήμης εὐδαίμονες γενήσονται. καὶ τηλικούτων ἀγαθῶν αὑτοὺς διδασκάλους καὶ κυρίους καταστήσαντες, οὐκ αἰσχύνονται τρεῖς ἢ τέτταρας μνᾶς ὑπὲρ τούτων αἰτοῦντες. ἀλλ᾽ εἰ μέν τι τῶν ἄλλων κτημάτων πολλοστοῦ μέρους τῆς ἀξίας ἐπώλουν, οὐκ ἂν ἠμφεσβήτησαν ὡς εὖ φρονοῦντες τυγχάνουσι, σύμπασαν δὲ τὴν ἀρετὴν καὶ τὴν εὐδαιμονίαν οὕτως ὀλίγου τιμῶντες, ὡς νοῦν ἔχοντες διδάσκαλοι τῶν ἄλλων ἀξιοῦσι γίγνεσθαι. Isoc. 13. 3-4. 14 At Isoc. Ant. 4, Isocrates reveals that he was subjected to an antidosis late in his life. An antidosis was a type of legal procedure that could be invoked by one wealthy citizen against another, supposedly wealthier citizen. The fact that an antidosis was brought against Isocrates is in itself indicative of his wealth. 15 Isoc. Ant. 39. 130 But these professors have gone so far in their lack of scruple that they attempt to persuade our young men that if they will only study under them they will know what to do in life and through this knowledge will become happy and prosperous. More than that, although they set themselves up as masters and dispensers of goods so precious, they are not ashamed of asking for them a price of three or four minae! Why, if they were to sell any other commodity for so trifling a fraction of its worth they would not deny their folly; nevertheless, although they set so insignificant a price on the whole stock of virtue and happiness, they pretend to wisdom and assume the right to instruct the rest of the world. Tr. G. Norlin. As George Norlin has pointed out, Isocrates’ criticism here recalls the words of Plato’s Socrates at the beginning of the Apology. 16 But Isocrates does not condemn his rivals because they teach for pay: it is rather because they are charging too little for the service that they claim they can perform. Three or four minae- a significant sum- would nevertheless, in Isocrates’ view, be nothing in comparison to happiness. Isocrates goes on to argue that his rivals hypocritically disparage wealth: καὶ λέγουσι μὲν ὡς οὐδὲν δέονται χρημάτων, ἀργυρίδιον καὶ χρυσίδιον τὸν πλοῦτον ἀποκαλοῦντες, μικροῦ δὲ κέρδους ὀρεγόμενοι μόνον οὐκ ἀθανάτους ὑπισχνοῦνται τοὺς συνόντας ποιήσειν. Isoc. 13. 4 16 The reference here is Pl. Ap. 20b, where Socrates tells of the sophistēs Evenus of Paros, who professed to teach virtue for a fee of five minae. 131 Furthermore, although they say that they do not want money and speak contemptuously of wealth as “filthy lucre” (lit. “mere silver and mere gold”), they hold their hands out for a trifling gain and promise to make their disciples all but immortal! Tr. G. Norlin. Despite their professions of contempt for wealth, then, Isocrates’ rivals are eager to promote their services- which they offer in exchange for money. Isocrates finds this behaviour more than a little hypocritical. But it is not nearly as ridiculous as the distrust they show towards their students: ὃ δὲ πάντων καταγελαστότατον, ὅτι παρὰ μὲν ὧν δεῖ λαβεῖν αὐτούς, τούτοις μὲν ἀπιστοῦσιν, οἷς μέλλουσι τὴν δικαιοσύνην παραδώσειν, ὧν δ᾽ οὐδεπώποτε διδάσκαλοι γεγόνασι, παρὰ τούτοις τὰ παρὰ τῶν μαθητῶν μεσεγγυοῦνται, πρὸς μὲν τὴν ἀσφάλειαν εὖ βουλευόμενοι, τῷ δ᾽ ἐπαγγέλματι τἀναντία πράττοντες. Isoc. 13. 5 But what is most ridiculous of all is that they distrust those from whom they are to get this money- they distrust, that is to say, the very men to whom they are about to deliver the science of just dealing- and they require that the fees advanced by their students be entrusted for safe keeping to those who have never been under their instruction, being well advised as to their security, but doing the opposite of what they preach. Tr. G. Norlin. Isocrates here criticises his rivals for their cautiousness with regard to the very people that they are promising to teach virtue. Such behaviour was difficult to justify, for a self- professed teacher of virtue: τοὺς μὲν γὰρ ἄλλο τι παιδεύοντας προσήκει διακριβοῦσθαι περὶ τῶν διαφερόντων, οὐδὲν γὰρ κωλύει τοὺς περὶ ἕτερα δεινοὺς γενομένους μὴ χρηστοὺς εἶναι περὶ τὰ συμβόλαια· τοὺς δὲ 132 τὴν ἀρετὴν καὶ τὴν σωφροσύνην ἐνεργαζομένους πῶς οὐκ ἄλογόν ἐστι μὴ τοῖς μαθηταῖς μάλιστα πιστεύειν; οὐ γὰρ δή που περὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ὄντες καλοὶ κἀγαθοὶ καὶ δίκαιοι περὶ τούτους ἐξαμαρτήσονται, δι᾽ οὓς τοιοῦτοι γεγόνασιν. Isoc. 13. 6 For it is permissible to those who give any other instruction to be exacting in matters open to dispute, since nothing prevents those who have been made adept in other lines of training from being dishonourable in the matter of contracts. But men who inculcate virtue and sobriety- is it not absurd if they do not trust in their own students before all others? For it is not to be supposed that men who are honourable and just-dealing with others will be dishonest with the very preceptors who have made them what they are. Tr. G. Norlin. Here, Isocrates seems to be criticising the fact that the teachers take a security deposit before educating their students, instead of asking for a fee once their lessons are over. This cautiousness indicates that the teachers are unsure whether their students will in fact honour their debts by paying their fees; but such cautiousness could reveal that the teachers themselves are uncertain about the effectiveness of their lessons. Isocrates suggests that a teacher of virtue should place trust in his students- not least because it implies that the teacher is confident in his own abilities. Many scholars have noted the parallels between this polemic and Socrates’ critique of the sophistai in the Gorgias. 17 In both passages, the self-professed teachers of virtue are said to behave absurdly with respect to their students. But Plato’s Socrates and Isocrates are making different points. For Plato’s Socrates, the sophistai have no grounds for demanding money from errant students. If their students do not pay their fees, then the sophistai have no- 17 Pl. Gorg. 519c. 133 one to blame but themselves: for they have failed as teachers of virtue. Isocrates, on the other hand, criticises his rivals for failing to show faith in their students. By demanding a security deposit in advance, they risk giving the impression that they are uncertain about the outcome of their own lessons. I would suggest that Plato’s critique derives from his generally hostile attitude towards the practice of teaching for pay. But Isocrates does not seem concerned with this practice per se: his focus is rather on behaviour that he believes to be lacking in decorum. Isocrates thus differs from Plato, Aristotle, and Xenophon in that he does not insist upon the moral inferiority of commodity-exchange or the difference between a philosophos and a sophistēs. I would argue that his stance on these matters is inextricably related to his mode of self-presentation, just as it was in Plato, Aristotle and Xenophon. I shall now consider a text that gives an outsider’s perspective, as it were, on the figure of the philosophos. In this respect, it differs from the passages that we have looked at thus far. But it will help us to understand the difference between the philosophos and the sophistēs from the point of view of someone who laid claim to neither title. Phobic discourses vs. discourses of contempt The text in question is a fragment of a play by the fourth-century comic playwright, Philemon. We know little about the context of this fragment, other than that it comes from a play called the Pyrrhus. In the fragment, a character comments critically on the investigations of the thinkers known as the philosophoi: οἱ φιλόσοφοι ζητοῦσιν, ὡς ἀκήκοα, 134 περὶ τοῦτό τ’ αὐτοῖς πολὺς ἀναλοῦται χρόνος, τί ἐστιν ἀγαθόν, κοὐδὲ εἷς εὕρηκέ πω τί ἐστιν. ἀρετὴν καὶ φρόνησίν φασι, καὶ λέγουσι πάντα μᾶλλον ἢ τί τἀγαθόν. Philemon fr. 71.1 (Kock) ‘The philosophoi investigate this matter, as I have heard, and a great deal of time is spent by them on the question ‘What is ‘good?’’ Not one of them has discovered what it is. They say it is ‘virtue’ and ‘intelligence’ and anything other than what the good actually is.’ The speaker, who advertises himself as someone who works in the fields, claims that he has found the answer. In his view, the good is ‘peace.’ He prays to Zeus that he may spend his life in peace and enjoy all of the good things that peace brings. Philemon’s speaker does not distinguish between sophistai and philosophoi in this fragment: he deals only with the philosophoi. He characterises them as people who waste a lot of time during their investigations and yet do not find the correct answers to the questions that they pose. This criticism contrasts sharply with the vicious denunciations of the sophistai that we find in texts like Xenophon’s Cynegeticus, where the sophistai are castigated for their greed and deceitfulness, but also for the emptiness of their words. What might account for the differences between the two sets of criticisms? In my view, the hetaira and the pornē can provide us with a useful parallel once again. According to James Davidson, the discourse of the hetaira in fourth-century literature ‘is fundamentally a phobic discourse, which we can associate with the discourse of gift-exchange and seduction, a never-ending cycle of involvement, founded on dissimulation and avoidance of definition’ (Davidson 1994, 141-2). The discourse of the pornē, by contrast, ‘is primarily a discourse of contempt. In terms of expenditure, this discourse focusses on waste and loss, and ephemeral pleasures.’ I propose 135 that the discourse of the philosophos in the Philemon fragment is ‘phobic’, to use Davidson’s term, and the discourse of the sophistai in the Cynegeticus a discourse of contempt. Let us consider how this distinction would help us to interpret the two passages. If Philemon’s speaker suggests that the philosophoi are engaged in an interminable cycle of involvement, that may be because he associates them with gift-exchange and its associated values. Note that the speaker does not denounce them as charlatans or conmen, as does the Xenophon of the Cynegeticus: instead, he criticises them because their apparently earnest and diligent attempts to define ‘the good’ miss the mark. Their attempts to define ‘the good’ thus, paradoxically, result in a failure to define it, requiring them to spend even more time searching for it. The sophistai in the Cynegeticus, on the other hand, are castigated because they encourage their students to waste money on the useless lessons that the sophistai provide. The focus here is thus on waste and loss, as it was in the discourse of contempt that Davidson associated with the pornai. The philosophos thus invites criticisms of a different kind from those which are levelled at the sophistai. This, on my reading, may well be because of their respective associations with different modes of exchange. The fragment of Philemon would thus support my contention that the philosophos- sophistēs was a discursive strategy. It helps attest to the flexibility of the model for dealing with the variety of evidence at our disposal. Conclusion I shall end by returning to Isocrates’ Antidosis, and to a later part of the speech, where Isocrates speaks of earlier sophistai. After describing the various subjects that serve as 136 preparation for philosophia- subjects like astronomy, geometry, and others of that sort- Isocrates offers some advice to younger men: διατρῖψαι μὲν οὖν περὶ τὰς παιδείας ταύτας χρόνον τινὰ συμβουλεύσαιμ᾽ ἂν τοῖς νεωτέροις, μὴ μέντοι περιιδεῖν τὴν αὑτῶν κατασκελετευθεῖσαν ἐπὶ τούτοις, μηδ᾽ ἐξοκείλασαν εἰς τοὺς λόγους τοὺς τῶν παλαιῶν σοφιστῶν, ὧν ὁ μὲν ἄπειρον τὸ πλῆθος ἔφησεν εἶναι τῶν ὄντων, Ἐμπεδοκλῆς δὲ τέτταρα, καὶ νεῖκος καὶ φιλίαν ἐν αὐτοῖς, Ἴων δ᾽ οὐ πλείω τριῶν, Ἀλκμαίων δὲ δύο μόνα, Παρμενίδης δὲ καὶ Μέλισσος ἕν, Γοργίας δὲ παντελῶς οὐδέν. Isoc. Ant. 268. I would, therefore, advise young men to spend some time on these disciplines, but not to allow their minds to be dried up by these barren subtleties, nor to be stranded on the speculations of the ancient sophistai, who maintain, some of them, that the sum of things is made up of infinite elements; Empedocles that it is made up of four, with strife and love operating among them; Ion, of not more than three; Alcmaeon, of only two; Parmenides and Melissus, of one; and Gorgias, of none at all. Here, Isocrates belittles the studies of the ancient physicists, and advises against a close study of their theories. His standpoint is rather different, in this respect, from that of Plato or Aristotle. But my interest in this passage lies in the fact that it poses problems to the traditional account. For here, Parmenides and Empedocles- who are included in Aristotle’s history of philosophy in Book One of the Metaphysics- are labelled sophistai. The Isocratean passage thus contradicts the tradition that includes them amongst the philosophers. When faced with a passage such as this, historians have tended to give priority to one piece of evidence over another. Thus, Parmenides and Empedocles have traditionally been treated as philosophers, in accordance with Aristotelian doctrine- even though Isocrates claims that they 137 were sophistai. Similarly, thinkers like Socrates, Plato, or Aristotle are regarded as philosophers, despite the fact that some of our sources refer to them as sophistai. 18 Philosophical readers generally assume that a category mistake has been made in cases such as this. Thus, they might suppose that the orator Aeschines was simply mistaken when he called Socrates a sophistēs. 19 This, in my view, is because they are treating the terms sophistēs and philosophos as if they were ontological categories. But, on my analysis, the difference between sophistēs and philosophos- and indeed, one’s standpoint on the question of whether they were different- seems to have depended largely on one’s political perspective. That is one reason why historians have found it so difficult to account for all the evidence when writing a history of ‘the sophists’ or of ‘the philosophers.’ Sources with an elitist bias would insist on the opposition between them; sources who were not hostile to monetary exchange tended to elide the distinction. The idea that the opposition is a discursive strategy helps to account for both phenomena. It also gives us reason not to accept the traditional account uncritically. For in accepting the philosopher-sophist distinction, and treating it as a useful analytical tool, we risk replicating an elitist ideology- when our task should be to analyse it. 18 For the designation of Socrates as a sophistēs, see Aesch. 1. 173. For the designation of Plato as a sophistēs, see Lysias fr. 449 Carey. For the designation of Aristotle as a sophistēs, see Polyb. 12. 8. 19 Aesch. 1. 173. Commenting on this passage, Alexander Nehamas writes ‘It is perhaps tempting to dismiss this classification of Socrates as a sophist… as the result of a philistine misunderstanding, a superficial confusion between sophistry and genuine philosophy, for which Aristophanes’ crude wit may have been ultimately responsible’ (Nehamas 1990, 1). Though Nehamas resists this temptation himself, his comment reveals how deeply ingrained the belief in the opposition between sophistry and philosophy is. I have argued, on the other hand, that this distinction is at root a political one, hence the vigorous contestation of these terms in the ancient sources. 138 Chapter Three: Exchange, Being, and Otherness in the Sophist In the last chapter, I argued that the opposition between philosophos and sophistēs should be interpreted as a ‘discursive strategy.’ This strategy would have had a moral and political dimension within the context of fourth-century Greece. What, then, are we to make of Plato’s Sophist- a text which at first sight seems devoted to the definition of the term sophistēs? The Sophist is one of the six ‘late’ dialogues that were supposedly written towards the end of Plato’s career. 1 Like the Protagoras, it is ostensibly concerned with the definition of the term sophistēs. 2 Martin Heidegger considered it among Plato’s ‘scientific’ dialogues- a qualification he used to indicate his comparatively lower opinion of those Platonic dialogues that do not ‘attain this height of scientific research’ (Heidegger 1997, 131). In the first part of the chapter, I shall interpret the first half of the Sophist in light of the Protagoras and the historical context that I have reconstructed. My reading of this portion of the dialogue will be informed by Jacques Derrida’s interpretation of it in an as-yet unpublished seminar from 1968 called ‘The parricide’. In the second part of the chapter, I 1 For the methods of determining the six ‘late’ dialogues as a distinct group, see Thesleff (1982), Howland (1991), and Nails (1995). For a discussion of the problems of dating Plato’s dialogues, see Blondell (2002), 11- 12. 2 It is important to note, however, that the Sophist supposes an interpretation of the Protagoras. Martin Heidegger pointed towards an interpretation of this kind in his lectures on the Sophist from 1924-25: ‘In the last parts of the dialogue there occurs a passage (253c8f.) where the protagonist says explicitly that in fact now, even before their discussion has arrived at the proper scientific definition of the sophist, they suddenly might have found the philosopher. That is noteworthy, not only as regards content, but purely methodologically, insofar as this makes it clear that Plato knew he could interpret the sophist as the counter-image (Gegenbild) of the philosopher only if he was already acquainted with the philosopher and knew how matters stand with him’ (Heidegger 1997, 169, with modifications). The Plato of the Sophist would thus have made a decision on that which was undecidable in the Protagoras. 139 shall interpret the central portion of the dialogue on its own terms, using other works by Derrida as my guides. To excavate the relation of the Sophist to earlier texts in Plato’s oeuvre, such as the Protagoras, and to Plato’s historical context, we need to look at the various ways in which the sophistēs is characterised. I shall begin by asking what we are to make of the description of the sophistēs at the beginning of the Sophist as a ‘hunter.’ For here, Plato would appear to have departed from his earlier definition of the sophistēs in the Protagoras. Where the Socrates of the Protagoras had compared the sophistēs to a trader, the main speaker of the Sophist decides that he is more like a hunter, and specifically, an angler- that is, someone who hunts by means of a lure (Pl. Soph. 221d). Many commentators on the dialogue seem to have regarded the example of the angler as a mere example- one that has no intrinsic connection to the figure of the sophistēs. 3 The dialogue’s speakers suggest- at first- that this is the case. 4 But other commentators have suggested that the two are far more deeply connected than Plato’s speakers would have us believe. Martin Heidegger, for example, has suggested that the determination of the angler ultimately provides the grounds for the determination of the sophistēs. 5 The figure of the angler would thus have provided the basis upon which the sophistēs was thought. I follow Heidegger in believing that the example of the angler is much more important than Plato might have liked us to think. 6 I shall thus attempt to explain the significance of the angler in light of Plato’s historical context. My question is why the figure 3 See for example Crivelli (2012), 22; Notomi (1999), 22. 4 Pl. Soph. 218d-e. 5 Heidegger (1997), 181-2. 6 Derrida also suggests that the choice of the angler is ‘not fortuitous’ (Derrida forthcoming, 4). 140 of the sophistēs should have seemed like an angler to Plato’s main speaker. Why did he choose this exemplary figure and not another? And what does this choice tell us about the speaker himself? To answer these questions, we will need to learn a little more about this speaker- an enigmatic character whose name is never revealed. The man with no name Let us turn to the opening pages of the Sophist, where the stage is set and the characters introduced. The Sophist takes place at an undisclosed location in Athens on the day after the discussion described in the Theaetetus. Socrates, the mathematician Theodorus, and the promising young student Theaetetus have reconvened in accordance with the agreement that they had made at the end of this earlier dialogue. 7 This time, however, Theodorus has brought someone else along. In the very first lines, Theodorus describes their new companion as a xenos: that is, a ‘stranger’ or ‘foreigner,’ or perhaps a ‘guest-friend.’ As the appellation would suggest, the xenos is not from Athens. 8 Theodorus tells us that he is from Elea in Southern Italy, where he was an associate of the famed thinkers Parmenides and Zeno. These details encourage us to imagine that some level of intimacy or familiarity exists between the xenos and Theodorus. It is possible that the xenos is Theodorus’ ‘guest-friend:’ a man from another city with ties to Theodorus and his family that obliged them to entertain each other whenever one was in the territory of the other. 9 If the xenos is in fact Theodorus’ guest-friend, the two of them would be involved in a relationship 7 For a discussion of the relation between the Theaetetus and the Sophist in the context of Plato’s career, see Blondell (2002), 7-8. 8 For an account of the character of the xenos in the Sophist and Statesman, see Blondell (2002), esp. 318-326. 9 For a history of the institution of xenia from the Archaic period to the Classical era, see Herman (1987). 141 of gift-exchange: indeed, from the earliest period of Greek history, it appears to have been customary for hosts to send guest-friends on their way with parting gifts. 10 Theodorus also describes the xenos as a mala andra philosophon- that is, ‘a very philosophical man’ or ‘a man who dearly loves wisdom’ (μάλα ἄνδρα φιλόσοφον, 216a). As in the other Platonic dialogues that we have seen, the notion of philosophia is subtly linked to the values and institutions of gift-exchange. The relationship between philosophers from different poleis may even be compared to the formal ties of xenia between Greek aristocrats. The description of the xenos as a philosophos leads Socrates to react in an apparently reverent fashion: ἆρ᾽ οὖν, ὦ Θεόδωρε, οὐ ξένον ἀλλά τινα θεὸν ἄγων κατὰ τὸν Ὁμήρου λόγον λέληθας; ὅς φησιν ἄλλους τε θεοὺς τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ὁπόσοι μετέχουσιν αἰδοῦς δικαίας, καὶ δὴ καὶ τὸν ξένιον οὐχ ἥκιστα θεὸν συνοπαδὸν γιγνόμενον ὕβρεις τε καὶ εὐνομίας τῶν ἀνθρώπων καθορᾶν. τάχ᾽ οὖν ἂν καὶ σοί τις οὗτος τῶν κρειττόνων συνέποιτο, φαύλους ἡμᾶς ὄντας ἐν τοῖς λόγοις ἐποψόμενός τε καὶ ἐλέγξων, θεὸς ὤν τις ἐλεγκτικός. 216a-b Are you not unwittingly bringing, as Homer says, some god, and no mere xenos, Theodorus? He says that the gods and especially the god of xenoi enter into companionship with men who have a share of just reverence and that they look down on the deeds of mankind, both those that are outrageous and those that observe good order. So perhaps this companion of yours may be one of the higher powers who has come to watch over and refute us because we are worthless in argument- a kind of god of refutation. 10 See Finley (1954), 60-3; Herman (1987), 78-81. 142 Socrates suggests that the xenos may in fact be a god in disguise and that his particular power may be to refute all of the present company in argument, thereby proving his superiority over them. Theodorus replies that the xenos is not likely to behave in this manner, since he is more restrained or well-measured (μετριώτερος) than those who devote themselves to disputation. However, Theodorus does not dismiss the possibility that the xenos may be divine: for the xenos, as Theodorus declared earlier, is a philosophos, and in Theodorus’ view, all philosophoi are divine. 11 Socrates praises Theodorus’ assessment, but he still harbours some reservations: καὶ καλῶς γε, ὦ φίλε. τοῦτο μέντοι κινδυνεύει τὸ γένος οὐ πολύ τι ῥᾷον ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν εἶναι διακρίνειν ἢ τὸ τοῦ θεοῦ· πάνυ γὰρ ἇνδρες οὗτοι παντοῖοι φανταζόμενοι διὰ τὴν τῶν ἄλλων ἄγνοιαν ἐπιστρωφῶσι πόληας οἱ μὴ πλαστῶς ἀλλ᾽ ὄντως φιλόσοφοι, καθορῶντες ὑψόθεν τὸν τῶν κάτω βίον, καὶ τοῖς μὲν δοκοῦσιν εἶναι τοῦ μηδενὸς τίμιοι, τοῖς δ᾽ ἄξιοι τοῦ παντός: καὶ τοτὲ μὲν πολιτικοὶ φαντάζονται, τοτὲ δὲ σοφισταί, τοτὲ δ᾽ ἔστιν οἷς δόξαν παράσχοιντ᾽ ἂν ὡς παντάπασιν ἔχοντες μανικῶς. 216c-d Well said, my friend. However, it may be that this class is not much more difficult to discern than that of the gods. For these men- I mean those who do not feign to be philosophoi but really are philosophoi- appear disguised in all sorts of shapes, thanks to the ignorance of mankind, and visit the cities, looking down from above on the lives of those below, and they seem to some to be of no worth and to others to be worth everything. And sometimes they appear to be statesmen and sometimes sophistai, and sometimes they may give some people the impression that they are altogether mad. 11 Pl. Soph. 216b-c. 143 In this passage, Socrates distinguishes on a terminological level between philosophoi and sophistai. 12 This would appear to be something of an advance on his thinking in the Protagoras, where the difference was between types of sophistēs. However, he also suggests that the difference between sophistēs and philosophos is difficult to discern. 13 This hesitation is characteristic of Socrates: he is, after all, the man who is wise because he is aware of his own ignorance. 14 But his doubt may also stem from the sheer difficulty of discerning between philosophoi and sophistai- figures who may ultimately have represented the opposition between giving or gift-exchange and exchange or commodity-exchange for many in Plato’s Greek audience. It is perhaps because of his uncertainty in this regard that Socrates asks the xenos what people in his country think about these matters and, crucially, what names they use for statesmen, sophistai, and philosophoi. His particular question is whether the Eleans use the words politikos, sophistēs, and philosophos as different names for the same thing or whether they distinguished between three classes (γένη) of beings and ascribed a different name to each of them. Socrates’ question is thus an ontological one. Having distinguished between the notion of a sophistēs and that of a philosophos, he leaves it to the xenos to determine the character of that difference. Unlike Socrates, the xenos does not hesitate to say that the politikos, sophistēs, and philosophos are different things- at least, in the eyes of his countrymen. He recognises that 12 Martin Heidegger has also noted the way that Plato’s xenos presupposes the distinction between philosophos and sophistēs in the Sophist. See Heidegger (1997), 169-172. 13 This admission is consistent with what we saw in the Protagoras, where Socrates declared that the Spartans and Cretans were the original practitioners of philosophy and that the greatest number of sophistai in the world lived in those places (Pl. Prot. 342a-b) It also fits with the passage from the Cratylus, where Socrates suggests that the god Hades is a sophistēs and a philosophos (Pl. Crat. 403d-404b). The Platonic Socrates seems consistently to imagine that the sophistēs and the philosophos are not incompatible with one another (see Pl. Tim. 19c-20a for example). 14 Pl. Ap. 21d. 144 the task of defining each of them is a difficult one, but, for him, that does not mean that it cannot be done. Why should the xenos in particular presuppose the difference between philosophos and sophistēs? In my view, we should take guidance from our earlier reading of Plato. Plato’s Socrates seemed to differentiate between philosophoi and sophistai because he believed in the opposition between gift-exchange and commodity-exchange. I would contend that the xenos also presupposes the opposition between gift-exchange and commodity-exchange, and that he differentiates the two figures along these lines. If this is the case, then we can establish a motive for his later actions. For the xenos would be intent upon distancing himself- a philosophos- and others like him from those whose practices he despised. This may well be why he takes up the task of distinguishing among the three figures. He undertakes it as a ‘favour’ (χάριν, 217c) to his hosts- a gesture that, on my reading, helps to identify him as a philosophos. What is more, the xenos agrees to speak by means of questions and answers with an interlocutor, instead of drawing out a long, continuous speech. In this way, he gratifies Socrates, who, as ever, prefers the former method. 15 After selecting Theaetetus as an interlocutor, the xenos lays out the project that they have ahead of them: εὖ λέγεις, καὶ ταῦτα μὲν ἰδίᾳ βουλεύσῃ προϊόντος τοῦ λόγου· κοινῇ δὲ μετ᾽ ἐμοῦ σοι συσκεπτέον ἀρχομένῳ πρῶτον, ὡς ἐμοὶ φαίνεται, νῦν ἀπὸ τοῦ σοφιστοῦ, ζητοῦντι καὶ ἐμφανίζοντι λόγῳ τί ποτ᾽ ἔστι. νῦν γὰρ δὴ σύ τε κἀγὼ τούτου πέρι τοὔνομα μόνον ἔχομεν κοινῇ, τὸ δὲ ἔργον ἐφ᾽ ᾧ καλοῦμεν ἑκάτερος τάχ᾽ ἂν ἰδίᾳ παρ᾽ ἡμῖν αὐτοῖς ἔχοιμεν· δεῖ δὲ ἀεὶ 15 Soph. 217c. Cf. Prot. 329b; Gorg. 449b. 145 παντὸς πέρι τὸ πρᾶγμα αὐτὸ μᾶλλον διὰ λόγων ἢ τοὔνομα μόνον συνωμολογῆσθαι χωρὶς λόγου. 218b-d Very well; you will follow your own devices about that as the discussion proceeds; but now you and I must investigate in common, beginning first, as it seems to me, with the sophistēs, and must search out and make plain in speech (logōi) what he is. For now you and I only have in common the name for (peri) him; but as for the thing (ergon) to which we give the name, we may perhaps each have a conception of it in our own minds; however, we ought always in all things to come to an agreement about the matter (pragma) itself by argument (dia logōn) rather than about the mere name without argument (logou). Here, the xenos makes it clear that he regards the sophistēs as a ‘thing’ (ergon), and not merely a word or name. His task is to describe the thing that is designated by this word. He recognises that this is easier said than done: τὸ δὲ φῦλον ὃ νῦν ἐπινοοῦμεν ζητεῖν οὐ πάντων ῥᾷστον συλλαβεῖν τί ποτ᾽ ἔστιν, ὁ σοφιστής· ὅσα δ᾽ αὖ τῶν μεγάλων δεῖ διαπονεῖσθαι καλῶς, περὶ τῶν τοιούτων δέδοκται πᾶσιν καὶ πάλαι τὸ πρότερον ἐν σμικροῖς καὶ ῥᾴοσιν αὐτὰ δεῖν μελετᾶν, πρὶν ἐν αὐτοῖς τοῖς μεγίστοις. νῦν οὖν, ὦ Θεαίτητε, ἔγωγε καὶ νῷν οὕτω συμβουλεύω, χαλεπὸν καὶ δυσθήρευτον ἡγησαμένοις εἶναι τὸ τοῦ σοφιστοῦ γένος πρότερον ἐν ἄλλῳ ῥᾴονι τὴν μέθοδον αὐτοῦ προμελετᾶν, εἰ μὴ σύ ποθεν εὐπετεστέραν ἔχεις εἰπεῖν ἄλλην ὁδόν. 218c-d But the tribe which we now intend to search for- that of the sophistai- is not the easiest of all things to comprehend (sullabein); and everyone has agreed long ago that if investigations of great matters are to be thoroughly worked out (diaponeisthai), we ought to practise them on small and easier matters before turning to the very greatest. So now, Theaetetus, this is my advice to ourselves, since we think 146 that the kind (genos) of sophistai is troublesome and hard to hunt (dusthēreuton), that we first practise its method (methodou) on someone easier, unless you have some other, easier way to suggest. The xenos characterises the attempt to comprehend the sophistēs as a hunt. He and Theaetetus would thus be hunters. 16 This characterisation would bring them closer to their quarry than they might like to admit: for the sophistēs will also turn out to be a hunter (θηρευτής, 231d). 17 The xenos undoubtedly tries to present the angler as a mere example upon which he is practising his method. He describes the angler as being ‘known to all and unworthy of any great interest’ (218e) and emphasises the importance of the method (μέθοδος) rather than the angler as the exemplary object. In doing so, he obscures the fact that the angler is a somewhat unflattering point of comparison for the sophistēs. We can get a sense as to why it should be unflattering when we consider the method by which the xenos catches the angler in the net of his definition. The xenos begins his investigation by asking whether the angler is a man with an art (τέχνη) or a man without one. When Theaetetus affirms that the angler has an art, the xenos asks what kind of art he possesses: a poetic (ποιητικὴ), productive art or an acquisitive (κτητικὴ) one. The xenos defines the poetical art thus: 16 For further points where the xenos treats their enquiry as a ‘hunt’, see Pl. Soph. 226a-b; 235a-c; 236d. 17 Derrida notes that the Sophist ‘produces itself as a great hunt. A manhunt which complicates itself by being a hunt for a hunter, because it will be necessary at some point to recognise that the sophist is himself a hunter, which will make the operation and its results more than speculative’ (Derrida forthcoming, 3). Derrida seems here to be thinking of the connection between the French word speculatif and the Latin word speculum (‘mirror’). The xenos himself would thus be implicated in the question of what a sophistēs is. 147 πᾶν ὅπερ ἂν μὴ πρότερόν τις ὂν ὕστερον εἰς οὐσίαν ἄγῃ, τὸν μὲν ἄγοντα ποιεῖν, τὸ δὲ ἀγόμενον ποιεῖσθαί πού φαμεν. Pl. Soph. 219b When anyone brings into being something which did not previously exist, we say that he who brings it into being produces it and that that which is brought into being is produced. The xenos includes among the poetical arts agriculture, animal husbandry, and the crafting of equipment, but he also includes the mimetic arts (ἡ μιμητική, 219b). This last item is particularly notable since the mimetic will later be included among the acquisitive arts. 18 The acquisitive arts, for their part, are said to create nothing. Some are engaged in coercing or mastering (χειροῦται) things that already exist, either by the use of words or by deeds, and some prevent others from coercing or mastering these same things. The xenos includes learning, the acquisition of knowledge, money-making, competing, and hunting among the acquisitive arts. The xenos and Theaetetus will place angling amongst the acquisitive arts, and will not consider the productive arts again until the very end of the dialogue. So, why does he spend so much time elaborating the distinction between the two types of art here? I would suggest that, in the eyes of the xenos, the two types are not of equivalent moral value. For ancient aristocrats were known to value self-sufficiency over dependence on others. The author of the pseudo-Aristotelian Economics gives a canonical statement of this aristocratic ideology: κτήσεως δὲ πρώτη ἐπιμέλεια ἡ κατὰ φύσιν. κατὰ φύσιν δὲ γεωργικὴ προτέρα, καὶ δεύτεραι ὅσαι ἀπὸ τῆς γῆς, οἷον μεταλλευτικὴ καὶ εἴ τις ἄλλη τοιαύτη. ἡ δὲ γεωργικὴ μάλιστα, ὅτι 18 Derrida makes this observation in Derrida (forthcoming), 8. 148 δικαία· οὐ γὰρ ἀπ᾽ ἀνθρώπων, οὔθ᾽ ἑκόντων, ὥσπερ καπηλεία καὶ αἱ μισθαρνικαί, οὔτ᾽ ἀκόντων, ὥσπερ αἱ πολεμικαί. ἔτι δὲ καὶ τῶν κατὰ φύσιν· φύσει γὰρ ἀπὸ τῆς μητρὸς ἡ τροφὴ πᾶσίν ἐστιν, ὥστε καὶ τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἀπὸ τῆς γῆς. Ar. Ec. 1. 1343a25-b2. With respect to property, the first concern is that it be according to nature. Farming ranks first according to nature, and second come all those that extract from the earth, such as mining and any other such thing. Farming is the best because it is just: for it does not come from other men, either willingly, as in trade or wage-earning, or unwillingly, as in war. It is also one of the activities according to nature in other respects, because by nature all things receive their nourishment from their mother, and so men receive theirs from the earth. The author of this passage seems to posit self-sufficiency as an ethical ideal. 19 He distinguishes agriculture from any of the arts that involve contact with other men. The xenos makes a similar distinction. I would thus contend that, for him, the productive arts were of higher moral worth than their counterparts. There would thus be nothing innocent about the choice of the angler as the exemplary object. From the outset, he is considered someone who is unworthy of any great esteem (σπουδή, 218e), since his art is one of acquisition. By connecting the sophistēs to the angler, as he will do when he declares that they are both kinds of hunter, the xenos subtly undermines the sophistēs. 20 The angler is one point of comparison upon which the figure of the sophistēs is based. The xenos will later compare the sophistēs to another, rather different figure. In order to 19 Finley (1999), 122. 20 Pl. Soph. 221d. 149 understand the progression of his thought, I shall briefly summarise the path of the ensuing investigation. The analysis of the angler and the first six definitions of the sophistēs In the course of his analysis of the angler, the xenos makes a number of other divisions that are relevant to the search for the sophistēs. The next one is particularly significant in light of the Protagoras. After placing angling among the acquisitive arts, the xenos separates the acquisitive arts into two types. One involves the exchange of gifts, wages, and purchases between willing participants, while the other involves the coercion of one participant by another. 21 All types of exchange- whether gift-exchange or commodity- exchange- would then be gathered in the same category. They would belong to the arts of acquisition, which are inferior to the arts of production. The distinction between production and exchange would bring us back to Given Time and the problem of the gift. In the final chapter, Derrida draws a series of links between the gift, the idea of nature, and the idea of production: The history of this concept of nature has an essential relation to the gift. And this in two ways: Naturizing, originary, and productive phusis, nature can be on the one hand the great, generous and genial donor to which everything returns, with the result that all of nature’s others (art, law [nomos, thesis], freedom, society, mind, and so forth) come back to nature, are still nature itself in difference; and, on the other hand, let us say after a Cartesian epoch, nature can be the order of so-called natural necessities- in opposition, precisely, to art, law (nomos), freedom, society, history, mind and so forth. 21 Pl. Soph. 219d. 150 So the natural is once again referred to the gift but this time in the form of the given… One may also ally the concept of production with that of phusis. Like that of labor or work, the concept of production can sometimes be opposed to the derived (post-“Cartesian”) sense of naturality and sometimes as well to the value of gift: The product is not the given, and producing seems to exclude donation. But is not the phuein of phusis first of all the donation of what gives birth, the originary productivity that engenders, causes to grow or increase, brings to light and flowering? Is it not what gives form and, by bringing things into the phenomenality of the light, unveils or develops the truth of that which it gives? Of the very thing it gives and of the fact that it gives? In this donating production, fortune (fate, chance, luck, fors, fortuity) and necessity are not opposed; on the contrary they are allied. Derrida (1992), 127-8. In this passage, Derrida points out that physis, the Greek term for ‘nature’, comes from the verb phuein (‘to bring forth,’ ‘to produce’). The idea of physis would then be linked to the that of ‘producing’. And if physis, which came to be translated as ‘nature’, has an ‘essential relation to the gift’, then the idea of production would also be linked to the idea of the gift. Thus, when the xenos in the Sophist opposes economy to production, he may be thinking in terms of the supposed distinction between giving and exchanging. 22 This 22 Derrida points to an interpretation of this kind in ‘The parricide’ through his reading of the term mimēsis. Mimēsis turns up on both sides of the divide between the poetic or productive (ἡ τέχνη ποιητική) and the acquisitive. The sophistēs is someone who ‘mimes the poetic’ (Derrida forthcoming, 8). However, ‘he can mime the poetic only because the mimetic is a sort of poetics. The poetic technique not only includes the ‘natural’ arts, it does not only deal with physis, it includes the doubling or re-doubling of the physical, or even the ‘technical’ (in the modern derivative sense) in a mimeisthai’ (ibid., 8). Derrida argues that ‘[t]he poetic, production is valued more highly than circulation, acquisition, or exchange (note the economic connotations of all these notions). Acquisition supposes production, which is closer to the origin. In this sense… one is closer, the mimetic is closer to God than the arts of acquisition are’ (ibid., 9). I would suggest that Derrida does not frame this problem in terms of the relation between gift and economy because ‘The parricide’ was written decades before Given Time. Nevertheless, his interpretation of mimēsis allows us to read the Sophist in the terms laid out in the later text. Note also that the arts that deal with physis are classed among the technai poiētikai. This suggests that the notion of production as phuein and production as poiein are perhaps closer than Plato would like to think. 151 devaluation of exchange would be consistent with ancient aristocratic ideology, which contrasted the civic model of social organisation with an ideal of self-sufficiency. 23 Let us return to the divisions in the Sophist. Having placed angling amongst the coercive arts, the xenos subdivides the coercive art even further. He says that open coercion is known as ‘combat’ (τὸ… ἀγωνιστικὸν) while secretive attempts at coercion are known as ‘hunting.’ Theaetetus duly assigns angling to the category of hunting. The xenos then distinguishes between two types of hunting. Some types of hunting, like certain forms of diving, seek after lifeless things, while the hunting of living beings is known as ‘animal- hunting’ (ζωιοθερική). Angling, on his account, is a type of zōiotherikē. The xenos makes several more divisions before settling upon his definition of the angler. These divisions do not reappear when he turns from the figure of the angler to the sophistēs, but the ones that I have identified above do. After establishing a definition of the angler, they find that the sophistēs is, like the angler, a type of hunter (221d)- albeit a ‘paid hunter after the young and wealthy’ (νέων καὶ πλουσίων ἔμμισθος θηρευτής, 231d). But they do not regard this definition as an all-encompassing one. In the next part of the dialogue, the xenos conjures up five more definitions of the sophistēs. The sophistēs is said to be a ‘merchant in lessons for the soul’ (ἔμπορος τις περὶ τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς μαθήματα); a ‘retailer’ (κάπηλος) who sold the same things; a ‘seller of his own lessons’ (αὐτοπώλης περὶ τὰ μαθήματα); an ‘athlete in contests of words who had specialised in the art of disputation’ (τῆς γαρ ἀγωνιστικῆς περὶ λόγους ἦν τις ἀθλητής, τὴν ἐριστικὴν τέχνην ἀφωρισμένος); and, ‘a purifier (καθαρτὴν) for the soul who purges opinions that prevent it from learning.’ The 23 As Leslie Kurke puts it ‘… Greek aristocratic ideology… valorizes gift exchange between households and reduces the public sphere, the domain of money, to shopkeeping. Rather than acknowledge an alternative civic authority (whose site is the agora and whose token is coinage), this elitist mystification makes coinage simply an instrument of trade and the triumph of the short-term transactional order’ (Kurke 1999, 73). 152 second, third, and fourth definitions recall Socrates’ definition of the sophistēs as a ‘merchant’ or ‘retail-trader’ in the Protagoras. The fifth reminds us of the sophistai Euthydemus and Dionysiodorus in the Euthydemus, in that these two were said to have practised the art of disputation (ἡ ἐριστικὴ). 24 The sixth definition recalls Socrates himself, who, in other dialogues, would purge his interlocutors of their ignorance through the use of refutation (ἐλέγχος). 25 The first five definitions of the sophistēs reinforce the impression that the xenos associates the sophistēs with exchange, and with commodity-exchange above all. 26 But the various definitions could also, from another perspective, make the boundary between philosophos and sophistēs seem rather unstable. After all, the sophistēs may appear to be a kind of hunter, but the philosophical xenos is also a kind of hunter. The sophistēs is said to be a practitioner of refutation (ἐλέγχος, 230b-231b); the xenos is also a practitioner of elenchus (259b-d). The xenos thus seems constantly to resemble the very thing that he is hunting. This perhaps attests to the fact that the philosophos and the sophistēs are more closely related than the xenos would like to admit. Theaetetus and the xenos are baffled by the multivarious results of their investigation. Having recapitulated their first six definitions of the term sophistēs, the xenos suggests that there is a problem with their findings: ἆρ᾽ οὖν ἐννοεῖς, ὅταν ἐπιστήμων τις πολλῶν φαίνηται, μιᾶς δὲ τέχνης ὀνόματι προσαγορεύηται, τὸ φάντασμα τοῦτο ὡς οὐκ ἔσθ᾽ ὑγιές, ἀλλὰ δῆλον ὡς ὁ πάσχων αὐτὸ πρός 24 Pl. Euthyd. 272b. 25 For an excellent discussion of the Socratic elenchus, see Kurke (2010), esp. p. 293-5. 26 Note that the xenos separates commodity-exchange (τὸ… ἀγοραστικόν, 223c) from gift-exchange (τὸ μὲν δωρητικόν), even if he considers both to be types of exchange. 153 τινα τέχνην οὐ δύναται κατιδεῖν ἐκεῖνο αὐτῆς εἰς ὃ πάντα τὰ μαθήματα ταῦτα βλέπει, διὸ καὶ πολλοῖς ὀνόμασιν ἀνθ᾽ ἑνὸς τὸν ἔχοντα αὐτὰ προσαγορεύει; 232a Well now, when a man is referred to by the name of a single art, but appears to know many different things, do you see that this appearance (phantasma) is unsound? It is clear that the investigator who labours under this impression with respect to an art is unable to see that upon which all these lessons (mathēmata) rely, hence why he calls the one who possesses it many names instead of one. The xenos seems to suggest that they have not succeeded in saying what a sophistēs is yet, despite the fact that they have isolated six different forms that he may take. This is a problem for the xenos, since he has already decided, from the outset, that the sophistēs is a specific thing. He exhorts Theaetetus not to stop until they have found a single definition that encapsulates the essence of the sophistēs. Let us consider the stakes of the speakers’ argument thus far. The xenos began by claiming that the philosophos, sophistēs, and politikos were different things, and not different names for the same thing. In order to prove how this could be the case, he sought first of all to define the term sophistēs. Though he had set out to provide a single, all-encompassing definition, he instead came up with six different ones. These multiple definitions would have undermined his original contention that a sophistēs is a specific thing. They would also have undermined his claim that the philosophos and sophistēs are different things. This is why the xenos tells Theaetetus that they need to discern that which underlies all of their previous definitions. The xenos will go on to provide a different model for the sophistēs: that of the painter. This is the final model that the xenos will use for the sophistēs; the rest of the dialogue will 154 be concerned to show that it is apt. We might therefore ask why he should have thought that the sophistēs was like a painter. In the next section, I shall attend to this question through a close reading of the relevant passage. The metaphor of the painter After exhorting Theaetetus to help him find an all-encompassing definition of the sophistēs, the xenos proposes that the sophistēs has two fundamental qualities. First of all, he practises ‘antilogic’- the art of arguing in opposition to someone. Secondly, he offers to teach this skill to others. According to the xenos, the sophistai professed to teach their students how to dispute in every conceivable subject. They could argue about divine matters, which the xenos glosses as ‘all the matters which are invisible to the masses’ (ὅσ᾽ἀφανῆ τοῖς πολλοῖς, 232c); about the things that are visible on the earth and in the sky; about matters relating to generation (γένεσις) and being in general (οὐσιας περὶ κατὰ πάντων); about the laws and other kinds of public affairs; and finally, they could argue against any practitioner of an art (δημιουργὸν) about the art (τέχνην) which he himself practised. The xenos concludes that the art of antilogic is, in sum, the ability to argue about any matter whatsoever. For the xenos, the claim to possess expertise in every matter is questionable, if not outright fraudulent. Theaetetus agrees that it is impossible for a man to know about all things. The xenos then asks whether a non-expert could say anything ‘sound’ (lit. ‘healthy,’ ὑγιές) when arguing with someone who did know about it. Theaetetus expresses doubt about this as well. The question then arises as to what the particular power of the sophistēs could be. For the sophistai had evidently convinced many young people that they were the wisest of all men in every given matter- hence why so many young people wanted to become their 155 students. According to the xenos, these young people wished to secure the services of the sophistai because they imagined that the sophistai had knowledge of the things about which they disputed. Since the sophistai would dispute about matters of every kind, they appeared to their students to be wise in all matters. But, as the xenos and Theaetetus had agreed, it was impossible for a man to be wise in all matters. The situation was thus a paradoxical one: people who could not possibly know everything were nevertheless able to convince their students that they did. We might ask why the xenos is so obsessed with the claims of the sophistai when he does not take them seriously himself. He seems to give us a clue as to what bothers him when he considers the peculiar ‘power’ of the sophistēs: δῆλον γὰρ ὡς εἰ μήτε ἀντέλεγον ὀρθῶς μήτε ἐκείνοις ἐφαίνοντο, φαινόμενοί τε εἰ μηδὲν αὖ μᾶλλον ἐδόκουν διὰ τὴν ἀμφισβήτησιν εἶναι φρόνιμοι, τὸ σὸν δὴ τοῦτο, σχολῇ ποτ᾽ ἂν αὐτοῖς τις χρήματα διδοὺς ἤθελεν ἂν τούτων αὐτῶν μαθητὴς γίγνεσθαι. 233b It is clear that if they neither disputed correctly nor seemed to the young men to do so, or again if they did seem to dispute rightly but were not considered wise on that account, nobody, to quote from you, would care to pay them money to become their pupil in these subjects. Here, the xenos refers to Theaetetus’ earlier suggestion that the sophistai would have no students if they did not promise to make people better speakers when it came to legal and political matters. 27 But it is the xenos who points to the fact that the sophistai make money as 27 Pl. Soph. 232d. 156 a result of these claims. The xenos thus continues to associate the sophistai with the arts of acquisition, and with money-making above all. Indeed, the speakers explicitly refer to the distinction between production and acquisition in the passage that follows. After concluding that the sophistēs must have a kind of knowledge that is based on mere opinion (δοξαστικὴν), rather than a knowledge of things as they truly are, the xenos proposes a kind of thought experiment. He asks Theaetetus to consider how he would respond if a man told him that he could make or do (ποιεῖν καὶ δρᾶν, 233d) everything in existence- all the animals, trees, and every living being- with the use of a single art. This man would also claim that he could make these things quickly, in exchange for a small amount of money (καὶ τοίνυν καὶ ταχὺ ποιήσας αὐτῶν ἕκαστα πάνυ σμικροῦ νομίσματος ἀποδίδοται, 234a). Theaetetus reacts with disbelief, dismissing the claims of the xenos as a ‘game’ (παιδιὰ, 234a). He recognises that there is something different about the kind of ‘production’ (ποίησιν, 233e) being described here. This is why he questions the xenos on his use of the term: τίνα δὴ λέγων τὴν ποίησιν; οὐ γὰρ δὴ γεωργόν γε ἐρεῖς τινα· καὶ γὰρ ζῴων αὐτὸν εἶπες ποιητήν. 233e-234a What do you mean by ‘making’ (poiēsin)? Evidently you will not say that this man is a kind of husbandman; for you said that the husbandman was also a ‘maker’ (poiētēn) of animals. Here, Theaetetus explicitly alludes to the first distinction that the xenos made at the very beginning of their search. After distinguishing between those who engaged in production and those who were engaged in acquisition, the xenos had included animal 157 husbandry among the productive arts. But now, he seemed to be describing a ‘producer’ whose wares were produced for the sake of acquisition- something that would blur the boundary between production and acquisition. Upon hearing Theatetus’ response, the xenos asks whether it is not just as obvious that a game (παιδιά) is being played when a man claims to know all things, and to be able to teach them for a small price and in a little time. When Theaetetus agrees, the xenos asks whether there is any game more skilful or charming than the mimetic kind (τὸ μιμητικόν, 234b). The xenos finally reveals that he has been thinking of a painter throughout the preceding discussion: οὐκοῦν τόν γ᾽ ὑπισχνούμενον δυνατὸν εἶναι μιᾷ τέχνῃ πάντα ποιεῖν γιγνώσκομέν που τοῦτο, ὅτι μιμήματα καὶ ὁμώνυμα τῶν ὄντων ἀπεργαζόμενος τῇ γραφικῇ τέχνῃ δυνατὸς ἔσται τοὺς ἀνοήτους τῶν νέων παίδων, πόρρωθεν τὰ γεγραμμένα ἐπιδεικνύς, λανθάνειν ὡς ὅτιπερ ἂν βουληθῇ δρᾶν, τοῦτο ἱκανώτατος ὢν ἀποτελεῖν ἔργῳ. 234c And so, we recognise that the man who promises that he is able to make all things by a single art will be able, by means of the painter’s art, to fashion imitations bearing the same names as actual things, and if he displays his paintings from a distance, he will be able to deceive the stupider young children into thinking that he is perfectly able to accomplish whatever he wants to do. If a painter could claim to be able to ‘make’ everything in the universe, in that he could paint anything he wished to depict, then a sophistēs could make a similar claim for his rhetorical capabilities. As the xenos puts it, 158 τί δὲ δή; περὶ τοὺς λόγους ἆρ᾽ οὐ προσδοκῶμεν εἶναί τινα ἄλλην τέχνην, ᾗ αὖ δυνατὸν ὂν αὖ τυγχάνει τοὺς νέους καὶ ἔτι πόρρω τῶν πραγμάτων τῆς ἀληθείας ἀφεστῶτας διὰ τῶν ὤτων τοῖς λόγοις γοητεύειν, δεικνύντας εἴδωλα λεγόμενα περὶ πάντων, ὥστε ποιεῖν ἀληθῆ δοκεῖν λέγεσθαι καὶ τὸν λέγοντα δὴ σοφώτατον πάντων ἅπαντ᾽ εἶναι; 234c Well then, should we not expect there to be another expertise that relates to words, by which it is possible to bewitch the young- since they still stand at a distance from the truth of things- through their ears with words: an expertise that shows them spoken images about all things, so as to make them think that true things are being said and that the person saying them is the wisest of all about all things? According to the xenos, a painter could conceivably claim that he was able to ‘make’ anything in the universe, in some sense; in the same way, a sophistēs could claim to be able to argue about any subject whatsoever. However, since the painter could only represent things that exist in the universe, one must infer that the sophistēs too was engaged in some kind of representational activity when he argued about all manner of subjects. Hence, the sophistēs would seem to know what he was talking about, even if he did not in fact know about them. Having posited this analogy between the art of the painter and the art of the sophistēs, the xenos puts forth a proposition for Theaetetus: περὶ δ᾽ οὖν τοῦ σοφιστοῦ τόδε μοι λέγε· πότερον ἤδη τοῦτο σαφές, ὅτι τῶν γοήτων ἐστί τις, μιμητὴς ὢν τῶν ὄντων, ἢ διστάζομεν ἔτι μὴ περὶ ὅσωνπερ ἀντιλέγειν δοκεῖ δυνατὸς εἶναι, περὶ τοσούτων καὶ τὰς ἐπιστήμας ἀληθῶς ἔχων τυγχάνει; 234e-235a 159 Tell me this about the sophistēs: is it already clear that he is a conjuror (tōn goētōn… tis), an imitator (mimētēs) of the things that are, or are we still uncertain whether he may not truly possess the knowledge of all the things about which he seems to be able to argue? The figure of the sophistēs is denounced as a goēs- a ‘conjuror’, ‘sorceror’, or ‘magician’. He would be an ‘imitator of the things that are’ (μιμητὴς ὤν τῶν ὄντων). Theaetetus sees no problem with this characterisation, since the sophistēs has been found to be concerned with paidiai- that is, with ‘games’ or ‘entertainment’. This leads the xenos to draw another conclusion: that the sophistēs belongs amongst the thaumatopoioi (235b). A thaumatopoios is literally a ‘wonder-worker’, but in Plato it is generally something less grand: in the allegory of the Cave in the Republic, the puppeteers casting shadows on the cave wall are described as thaumatapoioi (514b). Let us pause to consider the foregoing description. The art of the sophistēs has been compared to that of a painter. But the sophistēs is not just like any painter. He is instead like a painter who sells his paintings. References to the money-making practices of the sophistēs abound throughout the passage. It is this disquiet about the acquisitive arts that links the comparison of the sophistēs to the angler and the comparison of the sophistēs to the painter. If the sophistēs is condemned as a mimētēs, that is because his imitations are produced for the sake of acquisition. Once again, the opposition between production and acquisition governs the characterisation of the sophistēs- even when it is found that he is, paradoxically, a kind of producer. 160 An aristocratic bias thus seems to underlie the opening of the Sophist. But the dialogue also contains the resources for undermining the tenets of that ideology. 28 We will discover further points of weakness later in the dialogue, when the speakers try to maintain their definition of the sophistēs- despite the many problems with this definition. But before we get to these passages, I will need to discuss the intervening section of the dialogue, where the xenos sets up the discussion that will justify their final definition of the sophistēs. The parricide of Parmenides The difficulty of defining the sophistēs as a kind of ‘imitator’ is apparent from the passage that follows. The xenos starts his attempt at a definition by classing the sophistēs among those who practise the image-making art (τὴν εἰδωλοποιικὴν τέχνην), and proceeds to divide the image-making art into two kinds. On one hand, there would be the likeness- making art (τὴν εἰκαστικὴν… τέχνην), where a practitioner strives to faithfully reproduce the proportions and other qualities of the original in the copy. On the other hand, there would be the ‘fantastical’ (φανταστικὴν) art, where the copy distorts the original in some way, so that it 28 Derrida points to the term mimēsis as that which can be used to problematise the supposed opposition between production and acquisition. Mimēsis turns up on both sides of this divide, but, as Derrida notes, when it is grouped among the poetic arts, it does not receive definition: ‘It is only named, situated. Nonetheless, inasmuch as it is poetic, productive, efficient, it is modified by a positive, laudatory index. The poetic, production is valued more highly than circulation, acquisition, or exchange (note the economic connotations of all these notions). Acquisition supposes production, which is closer to the origin. In this sense… the mimetic [as technē poiētikē] is closer to God than the arts of acquisition are’ (Derrida forthcoming, 9). More to the point, when the mimetic is regarded as a productive art, ‘no problematic of truth is opened there. No distance is marked there, as in the right part, between imitations (mimēmata) and the truth (alētheia) of beings, of things. It’s that in the poetical arts, we are in a certain way in the truth, in the deployment and the opening of physis that presents itself, like a plant grows or like a living being develops. There is not yet any problem of truth as relation between a copy and a thing, in the difference between the thing and its idol’ (Derrida forthcoming, 9-10). This is why mimēsis should not be translated as ‘imitation’ in the Sophist: ‘it would be at the moment when mimesis is dominated, interpreted on the basis of a question about truth as the relation of a copy to its model, that it is defined, that it is translated as imitation. All of this constitutes a single movement. The translation of mimesis by imitation (relation of resemblance between a copy and its model) would be contemporaneous with a certain interpretation of truth (adequation, homoiosis, whose origin would hearken back further than one generally says)’ (ibid., 11). 161 resembles the original but does not faithfully reproduce it. The xenos ends his attempt at this point, since he is unsure as to which type of image-making is practised by the sophistēs. According to the xenos, the difficulty comes from another source: ὄντως, ὦ μακάριε, ἐσμὲν ἐν παντάπασι χαλεπῇ σκέψει. τὸ γὰρ φαίνεσθαι τοῦτο καὶ τὸ δοκεῖν, εἶναι δὲ μή, καὶ τὸ λέγειν μὲν ἄττα, ἀληθῆ δὲ μή, πάντα ταῦτά ἐστι μεστὰ ἀπορίας ἀεὶ ἐν τῷ πρόσθεν χρόνῳ καὶ νῦν. ὅπως γὰρ εἰπόντα χρὴ ψευδῆ λέγειν ἢ δοξάζειν ὄντως εἶναι, καὶ τοῦτο φθεγξάμενον ἐναντιολογίᾳ μὴ συνέχεσθαι, παντάπασιν, ὦ Θεαίτητε, χαλεπόν. 236d- 237a My friend, we really are involved in an extraordinarily difficult investigation. For the whole matter of appearing and seeming, but not being, and of saying things, but not true things, all this is now and has always been the cause of great puzzlement. For it is extraordinarily difficult to understand how one can claim that it is really possible to say or believe things that are false, and in expressing this not be caught up in a contradiction. For the xenos, the claim that falsehood exists amounts to a claim that ‘not-being’ exists. He is wary of making an assertion of this kind because of his respect for the teachings of Parmenides. Throughout his life, Parmenides is supposed to have warned his students not to maintain the position that not-being (τὸ μὴ ὂν) exists. The xenos gives a version of Parmenides’ argument before showing how the sophistēs could invoke it so as to escape definition as an imitator. It is worth noting that the xenos himself imitates a sophistēs in order to show Theaetetus how a sophistēs could exploit the Parmenidean argument against the being of non- 162 being. 29 The xenos would then be imitating the sophistēs at the very moment that he is trying to define the sophistēs as an imitator (μιμητὴς, 235a). Once again, the philosophical xenos would appear to be more like his quarry than he would perhaps like to admit. The difficulty of discerning between the two figures may help to explain why the xenos pursues the sophistēs as relentlessly as he does. As we saw in the Meno, there were historical reasons why someone might want to avoid being identified as a sophistēs- especially if one already held broadly elitist values. The xenos himself does not want to be identified as a sophistēs. He wants to be clear as to what a sophistēs is, so that he can claim that a sophistēs is not a philosophos. But if there was no such thing as an ‘imitator’ or purveyor of falsehoods, as the sophistēs would argue, then the sophistēs could not be defined as an ‘imitator.’ The difference between philosophos and sophistēs would be more obscure than ever. We can get a sense of how invested the xenos is in the definition of the sophistēs from the moment where he resolves to transgress the theory of his intellectual ‘father,’ Parmenides. For the xenos, the possible objections of the sophistēs to their definition of him are a problem that must be overcome. In his view, the sophistai are producers of falsehoods, and the Parmenidean argument is merely a means by which they can deny that fact. He exhorts Theaetetus not to give way to the difficulties, and instead to maintain their argument. When Theaetetus expresses enthusiasm for this idea, the xenos tentatively makes a request of him. He asks the young man not to consider him a kind of ‘parricide’ (πατραλοίας, 241d). Upon being asked for clarification, the xenos makes the following statement: 29 240a-241a. 163 τὸν τοῦ πατρὸς Παρμενίδου λόγον ἀναγκαῖον ἡμῖν ἀμυνομένοις ἔσται βασανίζειν, καὶ βιάζεσθαι τό τε μὴ ὂν ὡς ἔστι κατά τι καὶ τὸ ὂν αὖ πάλιν ὡς οὐκ ἔστι πῃ. 241d In defending myself (hēmin) it will be necessary for me to test the account of my father Parmenides and to contend forcibly that non-being in is, in some sense, and also that being, in a way, is not. The pronoun hēmin (lit. ‘for us’) here appears to be a plural used in place of a singular. The xenos seems to be suggesting that he is carrying out his violent transgression of Parmenides’ principle as an act of self-defence. But this act of self-defence would be carried out so as to defend others as well. 30 Theaetetus agrees that the attack on Parmenides’ principle must be fought through until the end (διαμαχητέον, 241d), leading the xenos to make a further comment: πῶς γὰρ οὐ φαίνεται καὶ τὸ λεγόμενον δὴ τοῦτο τυφλῷ; τούτων γὰρ μήτ᾽ ἐλεγχθέντων μήτε ὁμολογηθέντων σχολῇ ποτέ τις οἷός τε ἔσται περὶ λόγων ψευδῶν λέγων ἢ δόξης, εἴτε εἰδώλων εἴτε εἰκόνων εἴτε μιμημάτων εἴτε φαντασμάτων αὐτῶν, ἢ καὶ περὶ τεχνῶν τῶν ὅσαι περὶ ταῦτά εἰσι, μὴ καταγέλαστος εἶναι τά γ᾽ ἐναντία ἀναγκαζόμενος αὑτῷ λέγειν. 241d-e How is this not obvious- even to a blind man, as they say? For unless these things are either refuted or accepted, no one who speaks about false words or opinion- whether images or likenesses or imitations or apparitions (phantasmatōn) themselves- or about the arts that deal with them will ever be able to speak without necessarily contradicting themselves and becoming ridiculous (katagelastos). 30 At 242b, the xenos claims that his argument is being carried out for Theaetetus’ sake too. 164 The xenos suggests that the Parmenidean interpretation of ‘non-being’ would prevent all talk of falseness. Since, for the xenos, false images, words, and opinions exist- as do the people who produce them- the argument of Parmenides must be overcome in some way. 31 Before beginning his examination of Parmenides’ principle- an examination that he has always been reluctant to undertake- the xenos makes one final request: φοβοῦμαι δὴ τὰ εἰρημένα, μή ποτε διὰ ταῦτά σοι μανικὸς εἶναι δόξω παρὰ πόδα μεταβαλὼν ἐμαυτὸν ἄνω καὶ κάτω. σὴν γὰρ δὴ χάριν ἐλέγχειν τὸν λόγον ἐπιθησόμεθα, ἐάνπερ ἐλέγχωμεν. 242a-b I am afraid that on account of what I have said I will seem to you to be mad, since I have at once turned myself upside down. You see it is for your sake that I shall attempt to refute the account- if indeed I refute it at all. Why does the xenos claim that he has undertaken his refutation for Theaetetus’ sake? I would read these lines in the context of his previous statement: namely, that he is refuting Parmenides in order to defend himself. The xenos seems to believe that his parricidal argument will not only enable him to defend himself, but will help other philosophoi to 31 Derrida relates the parricide of Parmenides to the Platonic notion of mimēsis: ‘Homer, toward whom Plato directs numerous signs of filial respect, admiration, and gratitude, is cast out of the city, like every other mimetic poet, with all the honours due to a being who is “holy and wonderous” (hieron kai thaumaston, Rep. 398a), when he isn’t being asked to “erase” from his text all the politically dangerous passages (386c). Homer, the blind old father is condemned because he practices mimesis (or mimetic, rather than simple, diegesis). The other father, Parmenides, is condemned because he neglects mimesis. If violence must be done to him, it is because his logos, the “paternal thesis,” would prohibit (one from accounting for) the proliferation of doubles (“idols, icons, likenesses, semblances”). The necessity for this parricide, we are told in this very connection (Sophist 241d-e), ought to be plain enough for even the blind (tuphlōi) to see’ (Derrida 1981, 186). 165 distance themselves from the sophistai. 32 If he is able to identify the sophistēs, he can claim that a philosophos is not a sophistēs- even if the two resemble each other very closely. The xenos thus relentlessly pursues ‘someone who almost resembles him to the point that we could mistake one for the other’ (Derrida 1994, 174). His pursuit of the sophistēs is characterised as a hunt, but, as Derrida has pointed out, not all hunts aim to capture their quarry: … one chases after in order to chase away, one pursues, sets off in pursuit of someone to make him flee, but one makes him flee, distances him, expulses him so as to go after him again and remain in pursuit. One chases someone away, kicks him out the door, excludes him, or drives him away. But it is in order to chase after him, seduce him, reach him, and thus keep him close at hand. One sends him far away, puts distance between them, so as to spend one’s life, and for as long a time as possible, coming close to him again. The long time is here the time of this distance hunt (a hunt for distance, the prey, but also a hunt with distance, the lure). The distance hunt can only hallucinate, or desire if you prefer, or defer proximity: lure and prey. Derrida (1994), 175. I would argue that the xenos is engaged in just such a paradoxical hunt. 33 If he goes to great lengths to trap the sophistēs in the net of a definition, it is so that he can insist on the specificity of the sophistēs, and thus distance the figure of the sophistēs from that of the philosophos. 32 For Theaetetus as student of philosophia, see Pl. Tht. 143d-e. 33 Derrida notes that the figure of the ‘paradoxical hunt’, ‘beginning before Plato, will have traversed the whole history of philosophy, more precisely of the ontological inquest or inquisition’ (Derrida 1994, 175). Derrida is almost certainly thinking about the Sophist here, and at other points in Specters of Marx. Earlier in this text, he describes Marx as the ‘paradoxical heir of Plato’, in that they both produce a ‘counter-sophistics’ to combat the ‘conjuring tricks’ of their rhetorical adversaries (Derrida 1994, 157). 166 We should note, in this connection, that the xenos distances the sophistēs from the philosophos long before he arrives at his final definition of the sophistēs. This passage occurs later in the dialogue, after the xenos has discussed the ontological theories of his precursors and embarked upon an ontological theory of his own. The science of free men The xenos begins his own theory from a curious starting point- one that involves noting the resemblance between the various kinds (γένη) of being and the letters of the alphabet. 34 This analogy leads the xenos to posit a further analogy between the grammar teacher and the man who pursues the study of being: τί δ᾽; ἐπειδὴ καὶ τὰ γένη πρὸς ἄλληλα κατὰ ταὐτὰ μείξεως ἔχειν ὡμολογήκαμεν, ἆρ᾽ οὐ μετ᾽ ἐπιστήμης τινὸς ἀναγκαῖον διὰ τῶν λόγων πορεύεσθαι τὸν ὀρθῶς μέλλοντα δείξειν ποῖα ποίοις συμφωνεῖ τῶν γενῶν καὶ ποῖα ἄλληλα οὐ δέχεται; καὶ δὴ καὶ διὰ πάντων εἰ συνέχοντ᾽ ἄττ᾽ αὔτ᾽ ἐστιν, ὥστε συμμείγνυσθαι δυνατὰ εἶναι, καὶ πάλιν ἐν ταῖς διαιρέσεσιν, εἰ δι᾽ ὅλων ἕτερα τῆς διαιρέσεως αἴτια; 253b-c Well then, since we have agreed that the kinds also commingle with one another, or do not commingle, in the same way, must not he possess some science (epistēmēs) and proceed by the processes of reason (dia tōn logōn) who is to show correctly which of the kinds harmonize with which, and which reject one another, and also if he is to show whether there are some elements extending through all and holding them together so that they can mingle, and again, when they separate, whether there are other universal causes of separation? 34 Pl. Soph. 253a. 167 Just as the grammar teacher possesses the knowledge which enables him to tell which letters of the alphabet combine to form words, and which do not, so the person who can tell which kinds fit together, and which do not, must possess a type of knowledge (ἐπιστήμη). Theaetetus agrees with this proposal, suggesting that knowledge about the combination of kinds would be the greatest science (ἐπιστήμης) of them all. Theaetetus thus places the knowledge of the kinds over the knowledge of letters. 35 The xenos then proclaims that they have made a shocking discovery: τίν᾽ οὖν αὖ νῦν προσεροῦμεν, ὦ Θεαίτητε, ταύτην; ἢ πρὸς Διὸς ἐλάθομεν εἰς τὴν τῶν ἐλευθέρων ἐμπεσόντες ἐπιστήμην, καὶ κινδυνεύομεν ζητοῦντες τὸν σοφιστὴν πρότερον ἀνηυρηκέναι τὸν φιλόσοφον; 253c Then, Theaetetus, what name shall we give to this science? Or by Zeus have we stumbled upon the science that belongs to free men (eleutherōn) and perhaps found the philosophos when we were looking for the sophistēs? 35 Derrida has argued that the boundary between grammatical science and the science of being is not quite as secure as the xenos seems to think: ‘Grammatical science is doubtless not in itself dialectics. Plato indeed explicitly subordinates the former to the latter (253b-c). And, to him, this distinction can be taken for granted; but what, in the final analysis, justifies it? Both are, in a sense, sciences of language. For dialectics is also the science that guides us “dia tōn logōn,” on the voyage through discourses or arguments (253b). At this point, what distinguishes dialectics from grammar appears twofold: on the one hand, the linguistic units it is concerned with are larger than the word (Cratylus, 385a-393d); on the other, dialectics is always guided by an intention of truth. It can only be satisfied by the presence of the eidos, which is here both the signified and the referent: the thing itself. The distinction between grammar and dialectics can thus only in all rigour be established at the point where truth is fully present and fills the logos. But what the parricide in the Sophist establishes is not only that any full, absolute presence of what is (of the being-present that most truly “is”: the good or the sun that can’t be looked in the face) is impossible; not only that any full intuition of truth, any truth-filled intuition, is impossible; but that the very condition of discourse- true or false- is the diacritical principle of the sumplokē. If truth is the presence of the eidos, it must always, on pain of mortal blinding by the sun’s fires, come to terms with relation, nonpresence and thus nontruth. It then follows that the absolute precondition for a rigorous difference between grammar and dialectics (or ontology) cannot in principle be fulfilled. Or at least, it can perhaps be fulfilled at the root of the principle, at the point of arche-being or arche-truth, but that point has been crossed out by the necessity of parricide. Which means, by the very necessity of logos. And that is the difference that prevents there being in fact any difference between grammar and ontology’ (Derrida 1981, 166). 168 The hunt for the sophistēs would have resulted in the discovery of the philosophos. The philosophos is described as the person who studies the science belonging to free men (ἐλεύθεροι). By implication, the sophistēs is not such a person. The philosophos and the sophistēs would thus be differentiated along the lines of freedom (ἐλευθερία) and unfreedom (ἀνελευθερία) respectively. How are we to understand this distinction between the free and the unfree? Let us recall that Greece was a slave society in which freedom (ἐλευθερία) was something of a charged concept. We can confirm this by recalling the passage in Laws Eleven that we examined in Chapter One. 36 There, the eleutheroi were the citizens of Magnesia. They faced punishment if they were to behave in a manner that was deemed unworthy of an eleutheros. For Plato’s Athenian, participation in commodity-exchange was an example of such behaviour. He decreed that non-citizens alone should participate in trade: for they were not eleutheroi, and there would be little damage to the city at large if these men were to become corrupted after participating in such base practices. 37 If the distinction between ‘free’ and ‘unfree’ was one of social status, then one could argue that the distinction between ‘philosophy’ and ‘sophistry’ in the Sophist is also one of status. ‘Philosophy’ would be associated with men of high status; ‘sophistry’ would be associated with those on the margins of society. The distinction between ‘philosophy’ and ‘sophistry’ in the Sophist would thus resemble the distinction between the two types of sophistēs in the Protagoras. There, the philosophical sophistai of the Spartans and Cretans 36 Pl. Leg. 11. 918-20. 37 See Pl. Leges 11. 919e and my discussion of this passage in Ch. 1. 169 were associated with the educated nobles (καλοὶ κἀγαθοὶ); the mercantile Protagorean sophistai were linked to the ‘base’ men of the marketplace. 38 This interpretation finds further support later in the text, when the xenos explicitly distances the sophistēs from the philosophos. After describing the philosophos as the one who practises dialectic ‘purely and rightly’ (Pl. Soph. 253e), the xenos makes a confident declaration: τὸν μὲν δὴ φιλόσοφον ἐν τοιούτῳ τινὶ τόπῳ καὶ νῦν καὶ ἔπειτα ἀνευρήσομεν ἐὰν ζητῶμεν, ἰδεῖν μὲν χαλεπὸν ἐναργῶς καὶ τοῦτον, ἕτερον μὴν τρόπον ἥ τε τοῦ σοφιστοῦ χαλεπότης ἥ τε τούτου. 253e-254a Then it is in some place like this that we shall always, now and hereafter, discover the philosophos, if we look for him; he also is hard to see clearly, but the difficulty is not the same in his case and that of the sophistēs. The xenos draws a parallel between the sophistēs and the philosophos. Both of them, on his account, are hard to see- but for different reasons. The sophistēs would evade apprehension by running away into the darkness of non-being. The philosophos, on the other hand, is hard to discern because he is obscured by the light of being: ὁ δέ γε φιλόσοφος, τῇ τοῦ ὄντος ἀεὶ διὰ λογισμῶν προσκείμενος ἰδέᾳ, διὰ τὸ λαμπρὸν αὖ τῆς χώρας οὐδαμῶς εὐπετὴς ὀφθῆναι· τὰ γὰρ τῆς τῶν πολλῶν ψυχῆς ὄμματα καρτερεῖν πρὸς τὸ θεῖον ἀφορῶντα ἀδύνατα. 254a-b 38 Pl. Prot. 347d-348a. 170 But the philosophos, always devoting himself (proskeimenos) through reason (logismōn) to the idea of being, is also very difficult to see on account of the brilliant light of the place; for the eyes of the soul of the multitude are not strong enough to endure the sight of the divine. The philosophos is described as the one who devotes himself to the idea of being. As in earlier dialogues, he is distanced from the masses (οἱ πολλοὶ). The xenos claims that the eyes of the masses’ souls are not strong enough to endure the sight of him. The philosophos is thus separated from the sophistēs and from the masses. This recalls the passage we saw in the Republic, where the philosophos is characterised in terms of his relation to the city at large. 39 It is disconcerting that later philosophers have not questioned the basis of the opposition between philosophos and sophistēs. Many appear to have replicated the elitism that seems to underlie it. For Heidegger, the ‘free men’ under discussion are ‘those who, in their actions and commitments, are not in need of what the masses require in all their undertakings, namely an immediate, visible goal’ (Heidegger 1997, 364). He elaborates upon this characterisation in the lines that follow: Small and narrow-minded people are not capable of sustaining a labour in which they do not at the very outset know where it will carry them. But that is the pre-condition of the free man who would venture upon this science. Heidegger (1997), 364. 39 Pl. Rep. VI. 496a-e. I discussed this passage in Chapter One. 171 Heidegger’s interpretation would certainly find justification in Plato, but it covers over the particular historical resonances of the term eleutheros. Stanley Rosen also ignores the historical background when he suggests that ‘the distinction between the philosopher and the sophist is one of character’ (Rosen 1983, 262). Certainly, Plato would like us to believe that the philosophos is of a greater moral standing than the sophistēs, but, for him, this standing depends on the different relations that these figures have to the politics of exchange. My study thus far has focused on the politics that underlie Plato’s characterisation of the sophistēs in the eponymous dialogue. But the Sophist is also the most ontological of Plato’s works. The central portion contains a highly abstract argument for the being of non- being. What is the relation between these two parts- the political or historical part and the ontological part? Can either be said with any certainty to have priority over the other? Many readers have neglected the ‘historical’ part in favour of the ontological part. The Oxford philosopher Gilbert Ryle is said to have begun his lecture series on the dialogue in 1963 by announcing that he would ignore everything up to the beginning of the seventh definition since, in his view, the definition of the sophistēs through division ‘presupposes no philosophical sophistication whatsoever’ (Ryle 1966, 36). 40 But what if Plato’s politics had an impact on his ontology? What if his politics could be shown to be inextricable from his ontology? And if it were possible that his politics preceded his ontology, would that not have a bearing on our interpretation of his text? In my view, there are deep connections between the historical and ontological parts of the Sophist that are worthy of consideration. I shall reveal these connections in the section that follows. But this will require a slightly different approach to the dialogue than the one I have been taking thus far. Where I 40 Sprague (1993), 251, referenced in Notomi (1999), 8. 172 have previously been reading the Sophist in light of the Protagoras, I shall now read it on its own terms. I do this in order to show what is made possible by the thinking of Non-being that is developed later in the dialogue. We will see that ideas that seem most abstracted from political ideologies may in fact be continuous with them. Being and otherness I begin my reading of the ontological section by noting the different ways of translating the Greek term heteros. Heteros, which can also be written as thateros, is an adjective that can also be used as a noun. It can mean ‘different’ or ‘other’, and can also be used in double clauses to mean ‘the one… the other’ (ὁ ἕτερος… ὁ ἕτερος). In the Sophist, it is often used as a noun with the definite article (τὸ ἕτερον) and is generally translated as either ‘difference’ or ‘otherness.’ 41 There is a problem with translating to heteron thus in the Sophist, as Derrida indicates in a long and complicated passage from ‘Violence and Metaphysics’. 42 Commenting on the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas’ thinking of sameness and otherness, Derrida made the following series of arguments: 41 Crivelli (2011), for example, translates to heteron as ‘difference,’ while Rosen (1983) translates it as ‘otherness.’ 42 Martin Heidegger also suggests that heteron poses problems for translation in this dialogue: ‘For an understanding of what follows, and also of the proper delimitation of the ἕτερον over and against the ἐναντίον, we must realize that ἕτερον is still ambiguous for Plato here and that it even retains a certain ambiguity throughout the whole dialogue. In the first place, ἕτερον means an other. Secondly, it means τό ἕτερον, being other-than; hence it is the ontological determination of an other as other, as being precisely in the mode of being-other. And thirdly, it means έτερότης, otherness. Because it is a matter here for Plato of a γένος which is as it were quite empty, a highest γένος, which pertains, as will become clear later, to every possible something, the distinction is blurred from the very outset; i.e., he does not at all succeed in distinguishing the έτερον as "an other" from the έτερον as "being-other" or as "otherness." This ontological consideration is specifically Platonic in the intertwining of these three meanings.’ (Heidegger 1997, 376). 173 … let us confess our total deafness to propositions of this type: “Being occurs as multiple, and as divided into Same and Other. This is its ultimate structure” (Totality and Infinity). What is the division of being between the same and the other? Is it a division between the same and the other, which does not suppose, at very least, that the same is the other’s other, and the other the same as oneself? We are not only thinking of Parmenides’ exercise, playing with the young Socrates. The Stranger in the Sophist who, like Levinas, seems to break with Eleatism in the name of alterity, knows that alterity can be thought only as negativity, and above all, can be said only as negativity, which Levinas begins by refusing; he knows too that, differing from Being, the other is always relative, is stated pros heteron, which does not prevent it from being the same as itself (“same as itself” already supposing, as Heidegger notes in Identity and Difference, precisely as concerns the Sophist, mediation, relation, and difference: hekaston heautōi t’auton). Levinas, from his perspective, would refuse to assimilate the Other to the heteron in question here. But how can the “Other” be thought or said without reference- we do not say reduction- to the alterity of the heteron in general? This last notion, henceforth, no longer has the restricted meaning which permits its simple opposition to the notion of Other, as if it was confined to the region of real or logical objectivity. The heteron, here, belongs to a more profound and original zone than that in which this philosophy of subjectivity (that is, of objectivity), still implicated in the notion of Other, is expanded. Derrida (1978), 159, with modifications. In this passage, Derrida argues that the notion of the ‘Other’ is already implicated in a philosophy of subjectivity (and thus, objectivity). The term heteron, however, would be older than the philosophy of subjectivity. Derrida points to the Sophist as the text in which the notion of to heteron is first expounded in the philosophical tradition. He suggests that to heteron here would defy simple interpretation as ‘Otherness’, understood in terms of its supposed opposition to Sameness. 174 Derrida encourages us to pay attention to the determination of to heteron in the Sophist and to avoid understanding it in terms of the opposition between Sameness and Otherness. 43 In the course of my reading, I shall often leave the term untranslated so as to show how it exceeds this opposition- even whilst making this opposition possible. Let us turn to the passage where the xenos expounds his thinking of to heteron. The xenos has just determined through his analysis of earlier thinkers that Being (τὸ ὄν) must be other than all of the things that are. He has also posited that different kinds of being mingle with each other while other kinds do not. He then identified ‘Being’ (τὸ ὂν), ‘rest’ (στάσις), and ‘motion’ (κίνησις) as the most important kinds of being. He observed that rest and motion were unmixed in relation to each other (ἀμείκτω προς ἀλλήλω, 254d) but that Being was mixed with both (μεικτὸν ἀμφοῖν): for rest and motion both were. He then made a basic observation about the relations between the three kinds: οὐκοῦν αὐτῶν ἕκαστον τοῖν μὲν δυοῖν ἕτερόν ἐστιν, αὐτὸ δ᾽ ἑαυτῷ ταὐτόν. 254d Each of them is, then, other (heteron) in relation to the other two, but the same in relation to itself. 43 Indeed, in an earlier passage of ‘Violence and Metaphysics’, Derrida anticipates a task such as the one I am carrying out here: ‘We would have to examine patiently what emerges in language when the Greek conception of heteron seems to run out of breath when faced by the alter-huic; what happens when the heteron seems to become incapable of mastering what it alone, however, is able to pre-comprehend by concealing it as alterity (other in general), and which, in return, will reveal to heteron its irreducible centre of meaning (the other as Other [autrui]). We would have to examine the complicity of the concealment and the pre-comprehension which does not occur within a conceptual movement… We would have to examine this thought of the other in general (which is not a genre), the Greek thought within which this nonspecific difference realises (itself in) our history. Or, rather: what does autre mean before its Greek determination as heteron, and its Judeo-Christian determination as autrui?’ (Derrida 1978, 131). 175 This is the first time that the xenos brings up the notion of to heteron in the course of his ontological enquiry. His observations about Being, rest, and motion lead him to reflect upon his own use of terms: τί ποτ᾽ αὖ νῦν οὕτως εἰρήκαμεν τό τε ταὐτὸν καὶ θάτερον; πότερα δύο γένη τινὲ αὐτώ, τῶν μὲν τριῶν ἄλλω, συμμειγνυμένω μὴν ἐκείνοις ἐξ ἀνάγκης ἀεί, καὶ περὶ πέντε ἀλλ᾽ οὐ περὶ τριῶν ὡς ὄντων αὐτῶν σκεπτέον, ἢ τό τε ταὐτὸν τοῦτο καὶ θάτερον ὡς ἐκείνων τι προσαγορεύοντες λανθάνομεν ἡμᾶς αὐτούς; 254e-255a Well now, what have we just said by “sameness” and “otherness” (thateron)? Are they two more classes, different from the other three, but always of necessity mixed together (summeignumenō) with them, and must we conduct our inquiry on the assumption that there are five classes, not three, or are we unconsciously speaking of one of those three when we say “sameness” or “otherness”? The question is now whether sameness and otherness- that is, to heteron or to thateron- are different from Being, rest, or motion, or whether they are in some way implied by the terms Being, rest, or motion. 44 He begins by considering the relationship between motion and rest. On his account, motion and rest are not identical with sameness and otherness. This leads him to consider whether Being (τὸ ὂν) and ‘the same’ are one (ἕν τι, 255b). He quickly undermines this notion with reference to motion and rest. If Being meant ‘being the same’, then motion and rest would be the same, since they both are. But since motion and rest are in fact opposites (ἐναντία), it would appear that Being cannot mean ‘sameness’. Being and ‘the same’ would then be different kinds (γένη). Upon arguing for the 44 We should note that heteron and thateron are to all intents and purposes the same term, though the xenos uses them in different ways. He tends to use heteron as the adjectival form and thateron as a noun, though this usage is far from consistent. 176 non-identity of Being and ‘the same’, the xenos turns to the question of Being and to thateron. Either Being and ‘otherness’ are different names for the same kind, or they are different names for different kinds. Theaetetus seems to take the latter possibility seriously: for, upon hearing the words of the xenos, he responds ‘Maybe’ (ἴσως). The xenos immediately sets him on another path: ἀλλ᾽ οἶμαί σε συγχωρεῖν τῶν ὄντων τὰ μὲν αὐτὰ καθ᾽ αὑτά, τὰ δὲ πρὸς ἄλλα ἀεὶ λέγεσθαι. 255c But I think you would admit that certain beings are spoken of as being by themselves (kath’ hauta), and others beings are spoken of as always (aei) being in relation to (pros) something else. How might we understand the distinction that the xenos is trying to make here? Let us first consider the idea of a being that is kath’ hauto. The preposition kata means ‘according to’ while hauta is a reflexive pronoun meaning ‘oneself’. Beings that are kath’ hauta would thus be beings that are in and of themselves. The preposition pros, on the other hand, means ‘relative to’, ‘towards’, or ‘against’, and alla means ‘other things.’ Beings that always (ἀεὶ) are pros alla would thus be beings that always are in relation to other things. What would it mean always to ‘be’ in relation to something else? I suggest that we interpret this phrase in light of the Parmenidean thinking of ‘Non-being’ (τὸ μὴ ὂν). Earlier in the dialogue, the xenos had said that Non-being, on Parmenides’ telling, was inexpressible and inconceivable ‘by itself’ (αὐτὸ καθ᾽ αὑτό, 238c). The Parmenidean thought of Non-being would thus have been inconceivable except in terms of its difference from Being. It would have been constituted as itself by its relation to something other than itself. 177 I suggest that ‘always being in relation to something else’ means being like Parmenidean Non-being. It would mean being constituted as oneself by one’s relation to something else. However, beings that always are pros alla would only be one type of being. According to the xenos, there was also another type: beings that were according to or in relation to themselves. What would it mean to be in relation to oneself? As Heidegger points out, the phenomenon of the ‘relation-to’ (πρὸς τι) is also ‘an apriori structural moment of the καθ᾽αὑτό. Even sameness, the “in-itself,” includes the moment of the πρὸς τι; it is just that here the relation-to points back to itself’ (Heidegger 1997, 377). Being-in-relation-to-oneself would thus seem to presuppose the idea of being-in-relation-to-an-other. I suggest that we take this analysis as a clue for understanding the distinction between beings that always are pros alla and beings that are kath’ hauta. Beings that are kath’ hauta would be constituted by their difference from beings that always are pros alla. Where the latter always depend upon other things in order to be themselves, the former supposedly do not. The difference between beings that always are pros alla and beings that are kath’ hauta would then reside in their relations to other things. Beings that always are pros alla would be relational. They would only be themselves through their relations to others. Beings that are kath’ hauta would be non-relational. They would not need other beings in order to be themselves. When Theaetetus poses no resistance, the xenos makes a further proposition: 178 τὸ δέ γ᾽ ἕτερον ἀεὶ πρὸς ἕτερον· ἦ γάρ; 255d The other (heteron) always is relative to (pros) an other (heteron), is it not? By claiming that the heteron is always in relation to (πρὸς) heteron, the xenos associates the heteron with the beings that always are pros alla. By implication, that which is heteron would not be kath’ hauto. We are thus encouraged to interpret heteron as meaning that which is constituted as itself by its relationship to an other. When Theaetetus agrees with his characterisation, the xenos makes a decisive cleavage: οὐκ ἄν, εἴ γε τὸ ὂν καὶ τὸ θάτερον μὴ πάμπολυ διεφερέτην. 255d It would not be so, if being and otherness (to thateron) were not completely different. Here, the xenos posits a fundamental distinction between being kath’ hauta and being pros alla. He associates ‘being kath’ hauto’ with ‘being’ (ὂν) and ‘being pros allon’ with ‘otherness’ (θάτερον). We might reconstruct his thinking thus: ‘If the other (ἕτερον) were not itself only in relation to an other (ἕτερον), then there would be no distinction between ‘being’ and ‘otherness’ (θάτερον). But since the other (ἕτερον) is only itself in relation to an other (ἕτερον), there must be a sharp distinction between ‘being’ and ‘otherness’ (θάτερον).’ The context would thus encourage us to understand ‘otherness’ (θάτερον) as meaning ‘being- constituted-as-oneself-by-one’s-relation-to-an-other’. The xenos elaborates upon his thinking in the next line: 179 ἀλλ᾽ εἴπερ θάτερον ἀμφοῖν μετεῖχε τοῖν εἰδοῖν ὥσπερ τὸ ὄν, ἦν ἄν ποτέ τι καὶ τῶν ἑτέρων ἕτερον οὐ πρὸς ἕτερον. 255d If otherness (thateron), like being, had a share of the two forms (eidē), there would be also among the things that are other (hetera) an other (heteron) that was not relative to (pros) an other (heteron). Once again, we must hold to the distinction between beings that are kath’ hauta and beings that are pros alla. The xenos is claiming that if otherness (θάτερον) had a share of the two forms (εἰδῆ) previously discussed- that is, rest and motion- then there would be amongst the things that are pros alla- that is, among the hetera- things that were not pros alla. For rest and motion, it is assumed, are kath’ hauta. But- so goes the thought- since rest and motion are kath’ hauta, they cannot be pros alla. Thus, otherness (θάτερον) cannot encompass them. Having laid out this hypothetical situation, the xenos refers to their earlier agreement: νῦν δὲ ἀτεχνῶς ἡμῖν ὅτιπερ ἂν ἕτερον ᾖ, συμβέβηκεν ἐξ ἀνάγκης ἑτέρου τοῦτο ὅπερ ἐστὶν εἶναι. But now for us it is simply the case that whatever is other (heteron) happened to be what it is by compulsion (ex anangkēs) of an other (heteron). That which is other (heteron) would always be pros allon. As something that always was pros allon, it would be what it is only by compulsion (ἐξ ἀνάγκης) of something else. The xenos concludes that otherness (θάτερον) is a fifth class: 180 πέμπτον δὴ τὴν θατέρου φύσιν λεκτέον ἐν τοῖς εἴδεσιν οὖσαν, ἐν οἷς προαιρούμεθα. 255d-e It must be said that the nature of otherness (thaterou) is a fifth among the forms, in which our thinking moves. Otherness and Being would thus be distinct from sameness, rest, and motion. The xenos would have separated the hetera- the beings that are pros alla- from the beings that were kath’ hauta. At this point, the xenos would appear to have posited a binary opposition between being kath’ hauto and being pros allon. The two types of being would have been differentiated along the lines of non-relationality and relationality respectively. The xenos associated Being (ὄν) with the beings that are kath’ hauta and thus with non-relationality, whilst linking otherness (θάτερον) to the hetera- the beings that are pros alla- and to relationality. In asserting an absolute difference between the two, the xenos would have subordinated relationality to non-relationality. 45 There is then a subtle shift in the argument. The xenos makes a further proposition about the ‘nature’ (φύσις) of to thateron- one that seems to be in tension with the preceding thought: 45 This is perhaps the trickiest conceptual aspect of the text. As I argued earlier, non-relationality is only conceivable in terms of its difference from relationality. The two would thus be distinct but co-implicated. But Plato would have us believe that non-relationality was absolutely different from relationality. Non-relationality would thus be non-relational. In positing the non-relationality of non-relationality, Plato would be suggesting that there is such a thing as non-relationality itself, quite apart from its relation to relationality. This position is only possible if one thinks that non-relationality is in some way prior to relationality. The thinking of non- relationality here bears a resemblance to the Derridean notion of ipseity. For a discussion of ipseity, see Derrida (2005), 10-12. 181 καὶ διὰ πάντων γε αὐτὴν αὐτῶν φήσομεν εἶναι διεληλυθυῖαν· ἓν ἕκαστον γὰρ ἕτερον εἶναι τῶν ἄλλων οὐ διὰ τὴν αὑτοῦ φύσιν, ἀλλὰ διὰ τὸ μετέχειν τῆς ἰδέας τῆς θατέρου. 255e And we shall say that it permeates all of them: for each of them is other (heteron) than the rest, not on account of its own nature, but because it has a share of the idea of ‘otherness’ (tēs thaterou). How are we to translate- and, first of all, to understand- the word heteron here? For, in this line, heteron does not appear to mean ‘being-constituted-as-oneself-by-one’s-relation- to-another.’ The xenos seems to be saying that each of the kinds- Being, rest, motion, sameness, and otherness- are the same as themselves but ‘other than’ or ‘different from’ the rest. These beings- all of which are kath’ hauta- would be themselves whilst remaining distinct from each of the others. Through his reflections on the notion of to heteron or to thateron, the xenos develops a new concept of ‘otherness’. 46 The two kinds of ‘otherness’ are differentiated along the lines of relationality and non-relationality respectively. Where heteron and to thateron implied relationality in the first instance- that is, when used of the beings that always are pros alla- they now seem to allow for the possibility of non-relationality, and thus, of being kath’ hauto. Thus, Being, sameness, rest, and motion could be the same as themselves whilst being different from each of the others. Since each form was different from every other form, they would all participate in the idea of ‘otherness’ (τὸ θάτερον). To thateron would thus be 46 Heidegger makes a similar point, though for him, Plato here provides a new concept of ‘against’ (gegen) or of ‘against-ness’ (Gegenhaften). See Heidegger (1997), 378; Heidegger (1992), 543. 182 something like the highest genos, the kind that subsumes all of the other kinds- including that of Being. 47 Let us consider the rather compressed argument that we have just seen. Plato’s xenos had first associated the terms heteron and thateron with the beings that always are pros alla. He had associated the term ‘being’ (ὂν) with the beings that are kath’ hauta. He had then subordinated the beings that are pros alla to the beings that are kath’ hauta. The two types of beings were differentiated along the lines of relationality and non-relationality respectively. The xenos had presented the latter as being absolutely separate from and, therefore, superior to the latter. However, the term heteron is also open to another reading- one that undermines the hierarchy that Plato would like to establish. As we saw earlier, the xenos insisted that Being and otherness were completely (πάμπολυ, 255d) different. In doing so, he subordinated the beings that always are pros alla in relation to the beings that are kath’ hauta. But then he presented the relationship between the beings that were kath’ hauta- namely, Being, rest, motion, sameness, and otherness- as another type of otherness. This other type of ‘otherness’ was designated by the terms heteron and thateron- the very terms that he had associated with the beings that always are pros alla. 48 Thateron and heteron thus turn up on both sides of Plato’s opposing values. They are on the negative side- the side that includes the beings that always are pros alla and 47 Heidegger makes a similar observation on Plato’s conception of ‘otherness’: ‘Because it is a matter here for Plato of a γένος which is as it were quite empty, a highest γένος, which pertains, as will become clear later, to every possible something, the distinction [between different senses of heteron] is blurred from the very outset; i.e., he does not at all succeed in distinguishing the ἕτερον as “an other” from the ἕτερον as “being-other” or “otherness”’ (Heidegger 1997, 376). 48 Pl. Soph. 255e. 183 relationality- but also on the positive side- the one that includes the beings that are kath’ hauta, and non-relationality. We might thus think that the boundary between the two is rather more porous than Plato suggests. Instead of seeing the beings that are kath’ hauta and the beings that always are pros alla as opposites, we could contend that the former is only conceivable in terms of its difference from the latter. Instead of seeing non-relationality as the opposite of relationality, we could argue that non-relationality is only conceivable in terms of its difference from relationality. The terms heteron and thateron would allow us to argue that Plato needed relationality in order to conceptualise non-relationality. 49 He would thus have needed the beings that always are pros alla in order to conceptualise the beings that are kath’ hauta. The supposedly hierarchical relationship between them would in fact be one of mutual dependence. 50 This argument deploys the same ‘logic of the supplement’ that I have used in my reading of the Protagoras. But we might also ask why Plato should have wanted to place beings that are kath’ hauta over beings that always are pros alla. Here, we may take guidance once again from the pseudo-Aristotelian Economics. In this text, the author tells us that agriculture is the most just means of accruing property because it does not come from other people (οὐ γὰρ ἀπ᾽ ἀνθρώπων, Arist. Econ. 1343a27). Trade and war were more unjust 49 This is perhaps why Derrida writes that to heteron becomes ‘incapable of mastering what it alone… is able to pre-comprehend by concealing it as alterity (other in general), and which, in return, will reveal to heteron its irreducible centre of meaning (the other as Other [autrui])’ (Derrida 1978, 131). The ‘irreducible centre of meaning’ of heteron would be that of being constituted as oneself by one’s relation to something else. As such, it would be the condition of possibility for thinking ‘sameness’ as being kath’ hauto. 50 Heidegger also seems to notice the instability of the boundary between Being and otherness in Plato’s ontological account: ‘… it must be noted for what follows that the distinction now brought out between Being and otherness- a distinction concerning the categorial content of both these γένη- does not exclude the possibility that precisely every being, as something, is an other. This is the remarkable unclarity that we still find here in Plato: he indeed operates with this distinction but does not genuinely expose it. Here, at this point, Plato speaks of a noncoincidence of the categorial content of ὄν and ἕτερον; later, however, he tries to show precisely that every ὄν is ἕτερον. The noncoincidence of the categorial content does not contradict the coincidence of the realm of the presence of the categories which are under discussion here and which as such are διὰ πάντων, present throughout everything. In every ὄν, there is thus also the ἕτερον’ (Heidegger 1997, 378). 184 means of accruing property precisely because they involved other people. Moses Finley took this as a canonical statement of ‘the landowning ideology of the ancient upper classes’ (Finley 1999, 122). Plato’s characters also regard self-sufficiency as an ethical ideal- even if they express doubt that absolute self-sufficiency is possible- and valorise it over reliance upon others. 51 One could thus note the analogy between Plato’s scale of values and those of aristocratic ideology, and ask which of them came first. To put it bluntly: did Plato want self- sufficiency to be superior to reliance on others because this was in-keeping with aristocratic ideology? Or is the formal analogy between his scale of values and those of aristocratic ideology merely a coincidence? Whether or not Plato’s politics preceded his ontology (or mē-ontology), they would at the very least be implicated in it. An interpretation of this kind would thus problematise the later Aristotelian idea of philosophy as the science pursued for its own sake, and not for any intrinsic advantage- an idea that seems to be made possible by this very dialogue. 52 I shall end by considering the characterisation of philosophy in a later passage. As elsewhere in Plato, the boundary between philosophy and its other is significantly less stable than many of Plato’s readers have believed. 51 In Book III of the Republic, Socrates claims that ‘a good person is most self-sufficient (αὐτάρκης) when it comes to living well, and is distinguished from other people by having the least need of anyone or anything else’ (Pl. Rep. III. 387d-e). This suggests that, for him, self-sufficiency is an ethical ideal. However, in Republic Book II, Socrates supposes that a city comes to exist ‘because none of us is individually self-sufficient (αὐτάρκης), but each of us is in need of many things’ (Pl. Rep. II. 369b). Thus, he seems to doubt that absolute self-sufficiency is attainable. 52 See Heidegger (1997), 364, where Heidegger notes how Aristotle picks up on the notion of philosophy as it is developed in the Sophist- namely, as ‘the science of free men’ (τὴν τῶν ἐλευθέρων… ἐπιστήμην, Pl. Soph. 253c)- at the beginning of the Metaphysics: δῆλον οὖν ὡς δι᾽ οὐδεμίαν αὐτὴν ζητοῦμεν χρείαν ἑτέραν, ἀλλ᾽ ὥσπερ ἄνθρωπος, φαμέν, ἐλεύθερος ὁ αὑτοῦ ἕνεκα καὶ μὴ ἄλλου ὤν, οὕτω καὶ αὐτὴν ὡς μόνην οὖσαν ἐλευθέραν τῶν ἐπιστημῶν. Ar. Met. 1. 982b24-8. Clearly then it is for no extrinsic advantage that we seek this knowledge; for just as we call a man free (eleutheros) who exists for himself and not for another, so we call this the only free (eleutheran) science, since it alone exists for itself. 185 The double science In the following section, I shall pay particular attention to the notion of an elenchos. The noun elenchos is derived from the verb elenchoō (‘I refute,’ ‘I disgrace,’ ‘I test’). An elenchos is thus a ‘refutation’, an ‘argument of disproof’, or else a ‘process of cross- examination’. The xenos showed a high regard for the elenchos earlier in the Sophist. Whilst developing his sixth definition of the sophistēs, he described how good educators cast out the conceit of cleverness in their students: διερωτῶσιν ὧν ἂν οἴηταί τίς τι πέρι λέγειν λέγων μηδέν· εἶθ᾽ ἅτε πλανωμένων τὰς δόξας ῥᾳδίως ἐξετάζουσι, καὶ συνάγοντες δὴ τοῖς λόγοις εἰς ταὐτὸν τιθέασι παρ᾽ ἀλλήλας, τιθέντες δὲ ἐπιδεικνύουσιν αὐτὰς αὑταῖς ἅμα περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν πρὸς τὰ αὐτὰ κατὰ ταὐτὰ ἐναντίας. οἱ δ᾽ ὁρῶντες ἑαυτοῖς μὲν χαλεπαίνουσι, πρὸς δὲ τοὺς ἄλλους ἡμεροῦνται, καὶ τούτῳ δὴ τῷ τρόπῳ τῶν περὶ αὑτοὺς μεγάλων καὶ σκληρῶν δοξῶν ἀπαλλάττονται πασῶν τε ἀπαλλαγῶν ἀκούειν τε ἡδίστην καὶ τῷ πάσχοντι βεβαιότατα γιγνομένην. νομίζοντες γάρ, ὦ παῖ φίλε, οἱ καθαίροντες αὐτούς, ὥσπερ οἱ περὶ τὰ σώματα ἰατροὶ νενομίκασι μὴ πρότερον ἂν τῆς προσφερομένης τροφῆς ἀπολαύειν δύνασθαι σῶμα, πρὶν ἂν τὰ ἐμποδίζοντα ἐντός τις ἐκβάλῃ, ταὐτὸν καὶ περὶ ψυχῆς διενοήθησαν ἐκεῖνοι, μὴ πρότερον αὐτὴν ἕξειν τῶν προσφερομένων μαθημάτων ὄνησιν, πρὶν ἂν ἐλέγχων τις τὸν ἐλεγχόμενον εἰς αἰσχύνην καταστήσας, τὰς τοῖς μαθήμασιν ἐμποδίους δόξας ἐξελών, καθαρὸν ἀποφήνῃ καὶ ταῦτα ἡγούμενον ἅπερ οἶδεν εἰδέναι μόνα, πλείω δὲ μή. Pl. Soph. 230b-d They question a man about the things about which he thinks he is saying something when he is saying nothing; then they easily discover that his opinions are like those of men who wander, and in their 186 discussions they collect those opinions and compare them with one another, and by the comparison they show that they contradict one another about the same things, in relation to the same things and in respect to the same things. But those who see this grow angry with themselves and gentle towards others, and this is the way in which they are freed from their high and obstinate opinions about themselves. The process of freeing them, moreover, affords the greatest pleasure to the listeners and the most lasting benefit to him who is subjected to it. For just as physicians who care for the body believe that the body cannot get benefit from any food offered to it until all obstructions are removed, so, my boy, those who purge the soul believe that the soul can receive no benefit from any teachings offered to it until someone by cross-questioning (elenchōn) reduces him who is cross-questioned (ton elenchomenon) to an attitude of modesty, by removing the opinions that obstruct the teachings, and thus purges him and makes him think that he knows only what he knows, and no more. The elenchos is thus a process of purification for the soul. But as we shall see, there is more than one kind of elenchos- and not all of them are worthy of praise. In order to follow Plato’s thinking of the elenchos, I shall leave it untranslated or place it in parentheses when appropriate. Let us turn to the point after the xenos has laid out his ontological theory. After recalling that they had developed this theory in order to hunt for the sophistēs, the xenos explains how his account is able to evade the prohibition set by Parmenides: μὴ τοίνυν ἡμᾶς εἴπῃ τις ὅτι τοὐναντίον τοῦ ὄντος τὸ μὴ ὂν ἀποφαινόμενοι τολμῶμεν λέγειν ὡς ἔστιν. ἡμεῖς γὰρ περὶ μὲν ἐναντίου τινὸς αὐτῷ χαίρειν πάλαι λέγομεν, εἴτ᾽ ἔστιν εἴτε μή, λόγον ἔχον ἢ καὶ παντάπασιν ἄλογον. Pl. Soph. 258e-259a. 187 Then let no-one say that we dare to declare that what is not is the opposite of Being and then say that it is. For we long ago waved goodbye to talking about any opposite to being, no matter whether it is or is not, or whether an account can be given of it or whether it is completely unaccountable. Since the xenos does not define ‘non-being’ as ‘the opposite of being,’ he cannot be accused of declaring that absolute non-being is. The xenos seems to think the latter is an indefensible claim: as Derrida puts it, ‘[t]he Eleatic stranger and disciple of Parmenides had to give language its due for having vanquished him: shaping non-Being according to Being, he had to “say farewell to an unnameable opposite of Being” and had to confine non-Being to its relativity to Being, that is, to the movement of alterity’ (Derrida 1978, 110). The xenos then turns to the question of how his own account should be received: ὃ δὲ νῦν εἰρήκαμεν εἶναι τὸ μὴ ὄν, ἢ πεισάτω τις ὡς οὐ καλῶς λέγομεν ἐλέγξας, ἢ μέχριπερ ἂν ἀδυνατῇ, λεκτέον καὶ ἐκείνῳ καθάπερ ἡμεῖς λέγομεν, ὅτι συμμείγνυταί τε ἀλλήλοις τὰ γένη καὶ τό τε ὂν καὶ θάτερον διὰ πάντων καὶ δι᾽ ἀλλήλων διεληλυθότε τὸ μὲν ἕτερον μετασχὸν τοῦ ὄντος ἔστι μὲν διὰ ταύτην τὴν μέθεξιν, οὐ μὴν ἐκεῖνό γε οὗ μετέσχεν ἀλλ᾽ ἕτερον, ἕτερον δὲ τοῦ ὄντος ὂν ἔστι σαφέστατα ἐξ ἀνάγκης εἶναι μὴ ὄν· τὸ δὲ ὂν αὖ θατέρου μετειληφὸς ἕτερον τῶν ἄλλων ἂν εἴη γενῶν, ἕτερον δ᾽ ἐκείνων ἁπάντων ὂν οὐκ ἔστιν ἕκαστον αὐτῶν οὐδὲ σύμπαντα τὰ ἄλλα πλὴν αὐτό, ὥστε τὸ ὂν ἀναμφισβητήτως αὖ μυρία ἐπὶ μυρίοις οὐκ ἔστι, καὶ τἆλλα δὴ καθ᾽ ἕκαστον οὕτω καὶ σύμπαντα πολλαχῇ μὲν ἔστι, πολλαχῇ δ᾽ οὐκ ἔστιν. 259a-b But as for what we have said just now, that non-being is, let someone persuade us through refutation (elenxas) that we do not speak well, or, as long as he is unable, he too must say, as we do, that the kinds mingle with one another, and being and otherness (thateron) permeate through all things and 188 through one another, and the other (heteron), on one hand, since it participates in being, is by reason of this participation, yet is not that in which it participates, but other (heteron); but on the other hand, since it is other (heteron) than being, it is most clearly and of necessity not-being. But being, in turn, participates in otherness (thaterou), and would be other (heteron) than the other kinds, but being other (heteron) than them all, it is not each one of them or all the rest, only (plēn) itself; there is therefore no debate that there are thousands upon thousands of things that being is not, and just so all other things, both according to each and all together, are in some ways, and in other ways are not. The xenos seems to suggest that ‘being’ and to thateron permeate all things and one another. He says that the heteron- ‘the other’ or ‘that which is other’- participates in ‘being’, and thus is, but is not ‘being’, since it is ‘other’ (heteron) than ‘being’. He then argues that ‘being’ participates in to thateron and is thus other (heteron) than the other kinds. ‘Being’ would thus be other than every other kind. It would not be constituted by its relation to anything else. It would only be in relation to itself. ‘Being’ turns out to absolutely other than ‘non-being’. If ‘non-being’ is ‘otherness’ in the simple sense of ‘being-other’, true ‘being’ would be something else entirely. It would exist apart from all other beings and would not need any other being except itself (πλὴν αὐτό) in order to be itself. The xenos then outlines what he would regard as an appropriate way of criticising his argument: καὶ ταύταις δὴ ταῖς ἐναντιώσεσιν εἴτε ἀπιστεῖ τις, σκεπτέον αὐτῷ καὶ λεκτέον βέλτιόν τι τῶν νῦν εἰρημένων· εἴτε ὥς τι χαλεπὸν κατανενοηκὼς χαίρει τοτὲ μὲν ἐπὶ θάτερα τοτὲ δ᾽ ἐπὶ θάτερα τοὺς λόγους ἕλκων, οὐκ ἄξια πολλῆς σπουδῆς ἐσπούδακεν, ὡς οἱ νῦν λόγοι φασί. 189 τοῦτο μὲν γὰρ οὔτε τι κομψὸν οὔτε χαλεπὸν εὑρεῖν, ἐκεῖνο δ᾽ ἤδη καὶ χαλεπὸν ἅμα καὶ καλόν. Pl. Soph. 259b-c And if any man does not believe in these oppositions (enantiōsesin), he must investigate for himself and must say something better than what has been said just now: and if he enjoys dragging words about in one direction at one time, and in another direction at another time, and thinks that he has perceived some difficulty, he has taken seriously something that is not worth taking very seriously- or so our present words contend. For this is neither clever nor difficult to find out about, while what we have here is both difficult and fine. The xenos begins by suggesting the criteria for a successful refutation of his account, before identifying the kind of refutation that would not count. He refers disparagingly to those who enjoy ‘dragging words about,’ and compares doing so unfavourably to his own practice. When Theaetetus asks him what he is talking about, the xenos makes reference to their previous discussion: ὃ καὶ πρόσθεν εἴρηται, τὸ ταῦτα ἐάσαντα ὡς †δυνατὰ† τοῖς λεγομένοις οἷόν τ᾽ εἶναι καθ᾽ ἕκαστον ἐλέγχοντα ἐπακολουθεῖν, ὅταν τέ τις ἕτερον ὄν πῃ ταὐτὸν εἶναι φῇ καὶ ὅταν ταὐτὸν ὂν ἕτερον, ἐκείνῃ καὶ κατ᾽ ἐκεῖνο ὅ φησι τούτων πεπονθέναι πότερον. Pl. Soph. 259c-d What has been said before- the ability, once one has allowed that these things are possible, 53 to follow up what is being said, so that whenever someone says that the other (heteron) is in a sense the same, or that the same is other (heteron), one can refute (elenchonta) him with regard to the way and the respect in which he is claiming it to be one or the other. 53 Reading dunata instead of the OCT’s hôs <panti> dunata. 190 Here, the xenos describes the kind of elenchos of which he approves. This type of elenchos starts from the assumption that the co-existence of the kinds- and their power of combining (δύναμις κοινωνίας, Pl. Soph. 254c)- is possible. In other words, it begins from the same ontological premises as those of the xenos himself. 54 The xenos goes on to contrast this elenchos with another: τὸ δὲ ταὐτὸν ἕτερον ἀποφαίνειν ἁμῇ γέ πῃ καὶ τὸ θάτερον ταὐτὸν καὶ τὸ μέγα σμικρὸν καὶ τὸ ὅμοιον ἀνόμοιον, καὶ χαίρειν οὕτω τἀναντία ἀεὶ προφέροντα ἐν τοῖς λόγοις, οὔτε τις ἔλεγχος οὗτος ἀληθινὸς ἄρτι τε τῶν ὄντων τινὸς ἐφαπτομένου δῆλος νεογενὴς ὤν. Pl. Soph. 259d But to show that in some sort of way the same is other (heteron), and otherness (to thateron) sameness, and the great small, and the like unlike, and to take pleasure in thus always bringing forward opposites in speeches, all that is no true refutation (alēthinos elenchos), but is plainly the new-born offspring of someone that has just begun to get to grips with the things that are. In an elenchos of the second kind, one would constantly (ἀεὶ) bring forward opposites (ἐναντία) in order to show (ἀποφαίνειν) that the other (ἕτερον) in some sense is the same, or that sameness is in a sense otherness. Here, the xenos seems to be thinking in terms of 54 As Heidegger shows, the power of combining (δύναμις κοινωνία) is the ‘basic presupposition’ of Plato’s ontological theory: ‘The basic presupposition for this dialectical task and for its mastery is what Plato previously analyzed in the methodological discussions of the ontologies: that Being means nothing else than δύναμις, δύναμις of κοινωνειν; i.e., Being pertains to the possibility of being-together [das Möglichsein als Zusammensein]. This ontological concept of the δύναμις κοινωνίας is the genuine ύπόθεσις, that which is already posited in advance and which must be understood if one wants to take even the smallest step within dialectic. This ontological concept is not something provisional but, on the contrary, is precisely for Plato the basic presupposition for the activity of dialectic. When Plato puts forth this notion of δύναμις as an interpretation of the genuine meaning of Being, he obviously has a clear consciousness of the presuppositional character of this ontological concept. That becomes clear in the dialectical investigation itself. To be sure, Plato does not further reflect on what is genuinely presupposed in the δύναμις κοινωνίας. An interrogation of it did not lie within the horizon of his ontology or of Greek ontology in general. What Plato exposed with the δύναμις κοινωνίας as ύπόθεσις is, in a certain sense, the last matter at which Greek ontology can arrive while maintaining the ground of its research. That does not mean this δύναμις κοινωνίας would not itself allow and require a further clarification of its sense’ (Heidegger 1997, 369). 191 structure and relation. Sameness would be otherness inasmuch as sameness is only conceivable in terms of its difference from otherness. Similarly, greatness would only be conceivable in terms of its difference from smallness, and similarity only conceivable in terms of its difference from dissimilarity. The xenos recognises these structural relations between concepts, but he disapproves of those who would adduce them in argument. Note how careful the xenos is with his phrasing: he does not describe this elenchos as a false one: instead, he says it is not the true one, and castigates it for its apparent juvenility. The xenos would thus have us regard the first kind of elenchos- which he described as being both difficult and fine- as being separate from and superior to the latter. We thus have two kinds of elenchos on show here. An elenchos is good if it is practised in the way that the xenos has demonstrated, and if it takes for granted things like the being of non-being. It is bad if it exposes the structural relations through which Forms (εἰδῆ, Pl. Soph. 259e) are constituted. The xenos disparages the ‘bad’ kind of elenchus, but he perhaps takes it more seriously than he lets on. 55 For, as he noted earlier, it is senseless to argue that Non-being exists when Non-being is understood as the absolute opposite of Being. But this is exactly the sort of point that those who ‘drag words about’ would make. What is more, he seems tacitly to admit that the ‘bad’ elenchos is itself a kind of elenchos. The term elenchos would thus turn up on both sides of Plato’s opposing values. 55 In this connection, we might refer to a passage from Derrida’s Spectres of Marx- a passage which alludes to the Sophist: ‘… this rhetoric is in advance devoted to the polemic, in any case to the strategy of a hunt or chase [une chasse]. And even to a counter-sophistics that at every moment runs the risk of replicating the reply: reproducing in a mirror the logic of the adversary at the moment of the retort, piling it on there where one accuses the other of abusing language. This counter-sophistics (Marx as paradoxical heir of Plato, as we shall see) has to manipulate simulacra, mimemes, phantasms. It has to watch out for, so as to denounce, the maneuvers of an illusionist, the “conjuring tricks” of a prestidigitator of the concept, or the sleights of hand of a nominalist rhetor’ (Derrida 1994, 157). 192 I think it better to take this passage as a gesture of exorcism through which the xenos chases away that which may always come back to haunt his argument. 56 For, after securing Theaetetus’ approval, the xenos emphasises the dangers of the ‘bad’ elenchos: καὶ γάρ, ὠγαθέ, τό γε πᾶν ἀπὸ παντὸς ἐπιχειρεῖν ἀποχωρίζειν ἄλλως τε οὐκ ἐμμελὲς καὶ δὴ καὶ παντάπασιν ἀμούσου τινὸς καὶ ἀφιλοσόφου. Pl. Soph. 259d-e For certainly, my good man, the attempt to separate everything from everything else is not only not in good taste, but is also the activity of someone who is completely uncultivated and unphilosophical. Given that the man practising the second form of elenchos- which separates everything from everything else- is both ‘uncultivated’ (ἀμούσος) and ‘unphilosophical’ (ἀφιλοσόφος), the man who practises the first type of elenchos is presumably a philosophos. When Theaetetus asks him why it should be ‘uncultivated’ and ‘unphilosophical’ to think in these terms, the xenos refers back to the idea of the communion of kinds that had underpinned their whole argument: τελεωτάτη πάντων λόγων ἐστὶν ἀφάνισις τὸ διαλύειν ἕκαστον ἀπὸ πάντων: διὰ γὰρ τὴν ἀλλήλων τῶν εἰδῶν συμπλοκὴν ὁ λόγος γέγονεν ἡμῖν. Pl. Soph. 259e 56 According to Derrida, exorcism attempts to destroy and disavow ‘a malignant, demonized, diabolized force, most often an evil-doing spirit, a specter, a kind of ghost who comes back or who still risks coming back post mortem. Exorcism conjures away the evil in ways that are also irrational, using magical, mysterious, even mystifying practices. Without excluding, quite to the contrary, analytical procedure and argumentative ratiocination, exorcism consists in repeating in the mode of an incantation that the dead man is really dead. It proceeds by formulae, and sometimes theoretical formulae play this role with an efficacity that is all the greater because they mislead as to their magical nature, their authoritarian dogmatism, the occult power they share with what they claim to combat’ (Derrida 1994, 59). 193 The untwining of each thing from everything else is the complete disappearance of all discourse (logon): for it is because of the interweaving (symplokēn) of the forms (eidōn) with each other that we have discourse. The xenos suggests that their whole argument was predicated on the hypothesis of the communion of kinds. If this were to be picked apart, the whole of their discourse would, as he puts it, disappear. We might thus begin to suspect that the ‘unphilosophical’ elenchos is more threatening than the tone of the xenos would suggest. This may account for his subsequent recourse to the language of warfare: σκόπει τοίνυν ὡς ἐν καιρῷ νυνδὴ τοῖς τοιούτοις διεμαχόμεθα καὶ προσηναγκάζομεν ἐᾶν ἕτερον ἑτέρῳ μείγνυσθαι. Pl. Soph. 260a Observe, then, that we have now been just in time in battling against such men and that we have forced them to allow that the other (heteron) mixes with an other (heteron). The xenos seems to think that they have succeeded in establishing that the kinds do in fact mingle with each other. The xenos regards this as being a vital step: τούτου γὰρ στερηθέντες, τὸ μὲν μέγιστον, φιλοσοφίας ἂν στερηθεῖμεν: ἔτι δ᾽ ἐν τῷ παρόντι δεῖ λόγον ἡμᾶς διομολογήσασθαι τί ποτ᾽ ἔστιν, εἰ δὲ ἀφῃρέθημεν αὐτὸ μηδ᾽ εἶναι τὸ παράπαν, οὐδὲν ἂν ἔτι που λέγειν οἷοί τ᾽ ἦμεν. ἀφῃρέθημεν δ᾽ ἄν, εἰ συνεχωρήσαμεν μηδεμίαν εἶναι μεῖξιν μηδενὶ πρὸς μηδέν. Pl. Soph. 260a-b For, if we were to be deprived of this, the most important consequence is that we would be deprived of philosophy; but also, in the present context, one of our tasks must be to reach agreement about 194 what speech (logon) is, and if it had been taken away from us, so as not even to be at all, I suppose we would not be able to say anything further. But it would indeed have been taken away from us, had we conceded that there was no mixing of anything with anything else. The xenos here looks forward to their next task: namely, to come to an agreement on what speech (λόγος) is. The next part of the dialogue will engage with this discussion. But the xenos notes that they would not even have been able to ask this question had they not successfully argued for the communion of kinds, and thus, for the being of Non-being. He identifies this argument as the precondition of philosophy. If it were not to be granted, they would, as he puts it, be deprived of philosophy. The xenos thus seems to want the philosophical elenchos to be absolutely distinct from and superior to the ‘unphilosophical’ elenchos. He describes the first elenchos as being both difficult and fine, whilst disparaging the second. But both, as he tacitly admits, are types of elenchos- albeit ones that begin from different premises and take different positions on the possibility that forms or kinds (εἰδῆ) can be interwoven with one another. What is more, it is only by excluding the ‘bad’ elenchos from the field of permitted critiques that he can characterise the good kind. Thus, we can reconfigure their relationship as one of co- implication, even if Plato wants it to be one of opposition. If the ‘unphilosophical’ elenchos can be identified with ‘sophistry’, as Noburu Notomi has suggested, then we are now also in a position to re-examine the relationship between philosophy and sophistry. 57 Rather than seeing them as notions that exclude each other, we could instead point to their inseparability. As Derrida puts it in ‘Plato’s Pharmacy’, 57 See for example Notomi (1999), 246. 195 The difference between signifier and signified is no doubt the governing pattern within which Platonism institutes itself and determines its opposition to sophistics. In being inaugurated in this manner, philosophy and dialectics are determined in the act of determining their other. Derrida (1981), 112. An interpretation of this kind would once again encourage us to engage critically with the belief that the ‘sophist’ and the ‘philosopher’ are incompatible with one another. The Sophist would then provide further support for the hypothesis that I have advanced in earlier chapters: namely, that the distinction between sophistēs and philosophos was a discursive strategy in its ancient Greek context. Let us summarise our conclusions. We initially turned to the Sophist because it posed an obstacle to the theory that the distinction between sophistēs and philosophos was a discursive strategy. But we then found that the Sophist could in fact be read in light of the Protagoras and in the context of the Greek politics of exchange. We also found that there was a formal analogy between Plato’s valorisation of non-relationality over relationality and the political ideology of aristocratic self-sufficiency. We were thus able to argue that Plato’s politics are implicated in his ontology. Finally, we demonstrated that the Sophist inaugurates a tradition of its own, with its reflections on the notion of the heteron. At the same time, we found that this notion permanently provides the means by which we could question and problematise that tradition. 196 Chapter Four: Money on the Mind in Plato’s Republic This dissertation began with a reading of Plato’s Phaedo through the frame of gift and economy. I then interpreted the Protagoras and Plato’s thinking of the trader in light of this background. I shall now consider the importance of other notions that are associated with the economy in Plato’s corpus. This will involve a close engagement with the Republic- one of Plato’s greatest and most influential works. The Republic has generally been placed amongst the middle dialogues. It would thus have been written after the Protagoras and before the Sophist. It has traditionally been split into ten books. Some scholars have argued that the first book was originally a separate dialogue. 1 In this chapter, I argue that the notions of economy and exchange play a more important role in the Republic than has previously been acknowledged. I focus on three major passages from across the dialogue, paying close attention to the pressure they put on terms taken from the realm of the economy. In the first, I follow Plato’s reflections on the notion of a ‘wage’; in the second, I examine his thinking of gold and silver; and in the third, I study his conception of a number. I then consider the ways in which dialectic itself- the activity characteristic of the philosopher- relates to the practice of trade. This leads us to reconsider the question raised by Richard Seaford about the impact of money on the early Greek mind. 2 1 See Hermann (1839), p. 538-40. For a critical response to this view, see Kahn (1993). 2 Seaford (2004). 197 I shall take my starting point from a passage in the middle of Book One. This passage occurs during the famous debate between the characters of Socrates and Thrasymachus about the nature of justice. However, as I hope to show, the question of exchange and its relationship to morality lies just beneath the surface. In the following pages, I shall go through the passage in detail, drawing particular attention to the Greek word misthos. This word plays a crucial and enigmatic role in the Republic. The term misthos is usually translated into English as ‘wage,’ but it can also mean ‘reward’ (or ‘requital’). Misthoi could take the form of money, but they could also take a non-monetary form. Plato’s Socrates suggests as much when he cites coinage (ἀργύριον) and honours (τιμαί) as examples of misthoi. 3 However, the difficulty posed by the term misthos does not reside in the question of whether a misthos is monetary or non-monetary. Instead, Plato is interested in the idea of a misthos that is beyond the realm of circulation or exchange. It would be a misthos that one gives to oneself. The present chapter aims to reveal Plato’s dependence on the notions of circulation, economy, and exchange for conceptualising a sphere that was removed from all networks of exchange. At the same time, I wish to suggest that this latter notion already implies a position with respect to ancient Greek politics, since, as we saw in the last chapter, the devaluation of exchange was continuous with ancient aristocratic ideology. 4 3 Pl. Rep. I. 347a. 4 See Ar. Econ. 1343a25-b2. 198 Exchange in Plato’s Republic Let us begin by recalling the main points of the Republic. The whole dialogue is narrated by the character of Socrates. Socrates recalls his appearance at a symposium at the house of Cephalus- a wealthy metic- by the Piraeus, just outside of Athens. The characters are discussing the question of what justice (δικαιοσύνη) is when Thrasymachus, one of the guests, claims that he has the answer. Upon being asked to state his argument, Thrasymachus had defined justice as being whatever is to the advantage of the stronger. 1 He had identified the stronger as the person who ruled in expert fashion, and had then argued that injustice was more profitable to the individual who practised it than justice could be. Socrates was unconvinced by Thrasymachus’ claims. There seemed to him to be at least one major flaw in Thrasymachus’ position. He asked Thrasymachus whether he, Thrasymachus, believed that rulers ruled willingly (ἑκόντας, 345e). Thrasymachus answered in the affirmative, leading Socrates to pose a further question: τί δέ, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὦ Θρασύμαχε; τὰς ἄλλας ἀρχὰς οὐκ ἐννοεῖς ὅτι οὐδεὶς ἐθέλει ἄρχειν ἑκών, ἀλλὰ μισθὸν αἰτοῦσιν, ὡς οὐχὶ αὐτοῖσιν ὠφελίαν ἐσομένην ἐκ τοῦ ἄρχειν ἀλλὰ τοῖς ἀρχομένοις; 345e-346a ‘Well then, Thrasymachus,’ I said, ‘Do you not understand that, in other kinds of rule, no-one rules willingly, but they demand wages (misthon) on the assumption that their ruling will benefit not themselves, but their subjects?’ 1 Pl. Rep. 338c. 199 Socrates’ point in the present context is that a ruler would demand compensation for his services. This suggests to Socrates that ruling was not beneficial to the ruler himself. As a result, justice would not be that which was advantageous to the ruler, but that which benefited the ruler’s subjects. Having made his point, Socrates got Thrasymachus to agree that each craft differed from every other with respect to the power (δύναμις) that it had. When Thrasymachus agreed with this proposition, Socrates interrogated him further: οὐκοῦν καὶ ὠφελίαν ἑκάστη τούτων ἰδίαν τινὰ ἡμῖν παρέχεται ἀλλ᾽ οὐ κοινήν, οἷον ἰατρικὴ μὲν ὑγίειαν, κυβερνητικὴ δὲ σωτηρίαν ἐν τῷ πλεῖν, καὶ αἱ ἄλλαι οὕτω; 346a And doesn’t each craft provide us with its own (idian) benefit but not one that is common to all? Thus, medicine provides health, captaincy provides safety when sailing, and so on with the others? Thrasymachus agreed with these propositions, which prompted Socrates to ask a further series of questions: οὐκοῦν καὶ μισθωτικὴ μισθόν; αὕτη γὰρ αὐτῆς ἡ δύναμις· ἢ τὴν ἰατρικὴν σὺ καὶ τὴν κυβερνητικὴν τὴν αὐτὴν καλεῖς; ἢ ἐάνπερ βούλῃ ἀκριβῶς διορίζειν, ὥσπερ ὑπέθου, οὐδέν τι μᾶλλον, ἐάν τις κυβερνῶν ὑγιὴς γίγνηται διὰ τὸ συμφέρον αὐτῷ πλεῖν ἐν τῇ θαλάττῃ, ἕνεκα τούτου καλεῖς μᾶλλον αὐτὴν ἰατρικήν; And doesn’t wage-earning provide us with wages (misthoi)? For that is its power. Or do you call medicine the same thing as captaincy? Or, if you wish to define matters precisely, as you proposed: 200 even if a ship’s captain becomes healthy because it is advantageous for him to sail on the sea, you would not for that reason call what he does ‘medicine,’ would you? Socrates is here claiming that arts do not provide wages for the practitioner in and of themselves. Instead, practitioners must practise the art of wage-earning as a separate craft. Socrates alludes to Thrasymachus’ own demand for precise expression earlier in the dialogue. 2 Thrasymachus, for his part, agreed with Socrates’ statements. This allowed Socrates to make another proposition: οὐδέ γ᾽, οἶμαι, τὴν μισθωτικήν, ἐὰν ὑγιαίνῃ τις μισθαρνῶν. 346b Nor, I think, would you call wage-earning ‘medicine,’ even if someone becomes healthy while earning wages. The point here is to insist on the specificity of ‘medicine,’ as well as the specificity of wage-earning. When Thrasymachus agreed with Socrates’ proposition, Socrates asked him whether he would call medicine ‘wage-earning,’ even if someone earned wages from treating patients. Thrasymachus answered in the negative. Socrates was thus able to conclude that each craft brought its own particular benefit. This conclusion followed from everything that they had agreed upon, but it also had some questionable implications. For Socrates wanted to contend that all craftsmen derived benefits for themselves by practising an additional craft: namely, the craft of wage-earning. 2 Pl. Rep. I. 340e-341a. 201 When Thrasymachus agreed- and reluctantly (μόγις) at that- Socrates drew another conclusion with questionable implications: οὐκ ἄρα ἀπὸ τῆς αὑτοῦ τέχνης ἑκάστῳ αὕτη ἡ ὠφελία ἐστίν, ἡ τοῦ μισθοῦ λῆψις, ἀλλ᾽, εἰ δεῖ ἀκριβῶς σκοπεῖσθαι, ἡ μὲν ἰατρικὴ ὑγίειαν ποιεῖ, ἡ δὲ μισθαρνητικὴ μισθόν, καὶ ἡ μὲν οἰκοδομικὴ οἰκίαν, ἡ δὲ μισθαρνητικὴ αὐτῇ ἑπομένη μισθόν, καὶ αἱ ἄλλαι πᾶσαι οὕτως τὸ αὑτῆς ἑκάστη ἔργον ἐργάζεται καὶ ὠφελεῖ ἐκεῖνο ἐφ᾽ ᾧ τέτακται. 346c-d Then this very benefit, receiving wages (misthoi) is not provided to each craftsman by his own craft but- if one must examine the matter ‘precisely’- medicine provides health and wage-earning provides wages; house-building provides houses, and wage-earning, which accompanies it, provides wages; and so on with all the other crafts. Each carries out its own work and benefits that with which it deals. Socrates would thus draw a firm distinction between ‘wage-earning’ and the crafts for which one earned a wage. When Thrasymachus agreed that craftsmen did not receive any benefit from their crafts other than wages, Socrates put another question to him: ἆρ᾽ οὖν οὐδ᾽ ὠφελεῖ τότε, ὅταν προῖκα ἐργάζηται; 346e But does he not still provide a benefit, when he works for free (proika)? As I pointed out earlier, the adverb proika is derived from the noun proix (‘gift’). Socrates is suggesting that a craftsman provides benefits even if he does not get any reimbursement for his products: that is, if his products are given away at his own cost. Thrasymachus agreed with this proposition as well, leading Socrates to conclude his argument: 202 οὐκοῦν, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, τοῦτο ἤδη δῆλον, ὅτι οὐδεμία τέχνη οὐδὲ ἀρχὴ τὸ αὑτῇ ὠφέλιμον παρασκευάζει, ἀλλ᾽, ὅπερ πάλαι ἐλέγομεν, τὸ τῷ ἀρχομένῳ καὶ παρασκευάζει καὶ ἐπιτάττει, τὸ ἐκείνου συμφέρον ἥττονος ὄντος σκοποῦσα, ἀλλ᾽ οὐ τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος. διὰ δὴ ταῦτα ἔγωγε, ὦ φίλε Θρασύμαχε, καὶ ἄρτι ἔλεγον μηδένα ἐθέλειν ἑκόντα ἄρχειν καὶ τὰ ἀλλότρια κακὰ μεταχειρίζεσθαι ἀνορθοῦντα, ἀλλὰ μισθὸν αἰτεῖν, ὅτι ὁ μέλλων καλῶς τῇ τέχνῃ πράξειν οὐδέποτε αὑτῷ τὸ βέλτιστον πράττει οὐδ᾽ ἐπιτάττει κατὰ τὴν τέχνην ἐπιτάττων, ἀλλὰ τῷ ἀρχομένῳ· 346e-347a Then, Thrasymachus, it is now clear that no type of craft or office (archē) provides what is beneficial for itself, but, as we have been saying for a long time, it provides and draws up what is beneficial for its subject, and aims at what is advantageous for it- the weaker, not the stronger. That is why I said just now, my dear Thrasymachus, that no one wants to rule of their own volition (hekonta) and takes the troubles of others in hand in order to straighten them out, but each asks for wages (misthoi). You see, the person who is going to practice his type of craft well never does what is best for himself- not when he is doing as his craft prescribes- but what his best for his subject. In this passage, Socrates doubles down on the idea that crafts or offices must benefit those who do not possess them, rather than those who do. He argues that rulers do not rule voluntarily (ἑκόντα), but ask for wages instead. He thus maintains an opposition between voluntary work and work which is compensated. On his account, rulers demanded wages because their offices did not provide them with any benefit in and of themselves. Their labour would thus be a kind of wage labour, rather than a kind of voluntary labour. Socrates’ argument in this passage has been regarded as particularly unsatisfying. As Rachel Barney puts it, ‘the introduction of “wage-earning” as a distinct craft creates more 203 problems than it solves’ (Barney 2006, 52). Why, then, does Socrates put it forward? I would take my clue from the final part of his argument. According to Socrates, a craftsman provides a benefit even when he works for free (προῖκα). However, if he works for free, he would not receive a benefit in his turn. Thus, there must be a distinction between working for free and working for a wage. Socrates identifies the former with that which is voluntary (ἑκών) and the latter with that which is compensated. The idea that compensated labour is not voluntary would fit well with an ideology of giving and gift-exchange- one that valued generosity over calculation, expenditure over profit, and production over acquisition. 3 It is thus telling that Socrates associates working for free (προῖκα) with voluntary (ἑκων) labour, and connects the term misthos to compensated labour. We might usefully compare this argument to a passage in Xenophon that we looked at earlier. Whilst defending the historical figure of Socrates from the charge of corrupting the young in his Memorabilia, he was led to remark upon Socrates’ attitude towards the love of money: οὐ μὴν οὐδ᾽ ἐρασιχρημάτους γε τοὺς συνόντας ἐποίει. τῶν μὲν γὰρ ἄλλων ἐπιθυμιῶν ἔπαυε, τοὺς δ᾽ ἑαυτοῦ ἐπιθυμοῦντας οὐκ ἐπράττετο χρήματα. τούτου δ᾽ ἀπεχόμενος ἐνόμιζεν ἐλευθερίας ἐπιμελεῖσθαι· τοὺς δὲ λαμβάνοντας τῆς ὁμιλίας μισθὸν ἀνδραποδιστὰς ἑαυτῶν ἀπεκάλει διὰ τὸ ἀναγκαῖον αὐτοῖς εἶναι διαλέγεσθαι παρ᾽ ὧν ἂν λάβοιεν τὸν μισθόν. Xen. Mem. 1. 2. 5-6 Nor did he make his companions desirous of money. For while he checked their other desires, he would not make money out of their own desire for his companionship. He thought that this restraint 3 For the valuation of generosity and expenditure over economy and calculation, see Derrida (1992), 62-3. 204 ensured his liberty, and he denounced those who took a wage for their companionship as people who enslaved themselves: for it was necessary for them to converse with those from whom they took their wages. Like the Socrates of the Republic, Xenophon’s Socrates seems to have regarded paid labour as being incompatible with free will. He claims that those who demanded a wage for their companionship were their own enslavers (ἀνδραποδισταί). While Plato’s Socrates does not adopt such inflammatory rhetoric- in which gift-exchange is aligned with freedom and wage-labour with slavery- he too suggests that one cannot be truly willing to do something if one asks for something in return. I would thus argue that the opposition between giving and gift-exchange, on the one hand, and exchanging and commodity-exchange, on the other, underlies this complicated and rather unsatisfying argument. Such a reading would help to explain why Thrasymachus is presented so unsympathetically in the Republic. Where he charges fees for his supposed wisdom, Socrates seems to think it appropriate to give such wisdom as a favour (χάρις). 4 However, the text also contains the resources for configuring the relationship between the terms of this opposition in a different manner. Let us return to the place from which we left in the Republic. Socrates has just opposed voluntary labour to compensated labour, and has associated the term misthos with the latter. There is then a subtle, barely perceptible shift in the argument. Socrates says: 4 Pl. Rep. I. 337d-338a. For the unflattering comparison of Thrasymachus to a bath attendant, see Pl. Rep. I. 344d. 205 ὧν δὴ ἕνεκα, ὡς ἔοικε, μισθὸν δεῖν ὑπάρχειν τοῖς μέλλουσιν ἐθελήσειν ἄρχειν, ἢ ἀργύριον ἢ τιμήν, ἢ ζημίαν ἐὰν μὴ ἄρχῃ. 347a It is because of this, it seems, that there must be (dein huparchein) wages (misthon) for those who are going to be willing to rule, whether they are in the form of money or honour or the penalty if one does not rule. In this line, Socrates suggests that all labour- whether voluntary or compensated- is, in a sense, wage labour. Everything depends on our interpretation of the term misthos. Socrates identifies three types of misthos: money, honour, and, most obscurely, the penalty (ζημία) if one does not rule. Glaucon registered his confusion at Socrates’ words: πῶς τοῦτο λέγεις, ὦ Σώκρατες; ἔφη ὁ Γλαύκων· τοὺς μὲν γὰρ δύο μισθοὺς γιγνώσκω, τὴν δὲ ζημίαν ἥντινα λέγεις καὶ ὡς ἐν μισθοῦ μέρει εἴρηκας, οὐ συνῆκα. 347a ‘What do you mean, Socrates?’ said Glaucon. ‘For I know the first two types of wage (misthous), but I do not understand the ‘penalty’ of which you have spoken or how it is in the category (merei) of a ‘wage’ (misthou).’ Glaucon points to the fact that a misthos is something that you receive from someone else in recompense for a service performed. It would thus appear that Socrates understood something else by the term misthos when he called the penalty that one receives if one does not rule a misthos. Socrates responded by distinguishing this third type of misthos from ‘money’ and ‘honour’- the more familiar forms: 206 τὸν τῶν βελτίστων ἄρα μισθόν, ἔφην, οὐ συνιεῖς, δι᾽ ὃν ἄρχουσιν οἱ ἐπιεικέστατοι, ὅταν ἐθέλωσιν ἄρχειν. ἢ οὐκ οἶσθα ὅτι τὸ φιλότιμόν τε καὶ φιλάργυρον εἶναι ὄνειδος λέγεταί τε καὶ ἔστιν; 347a-b ‘Then,’ I said, ‘You do not understand the misthos of the best men, on account of which the most suitable people rule, when they are willing to rule. Or don’t you know that it is said to be a reproach to love honour or money, and rightly so?’ In Socrates’ view, the best of men would not covet money or honours, since to do so would earn them reproach. 5 When Glaucon signalled his familiarity with this way of thinking, Socrates developed the point: διὰ ταῦτα τοίνυν, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, οὔτε χρημάτων ἕνεκα ἐθέλουσιν ἄρχειν οἱ ἀγαθοὶ οὔτε τιμῆς· οὔτε γὰρ φανερῶς πραττόμενοι τῆς ἀρχῆς ἕνεκα μισθὸν μισθωτοὶ βούλονται κεκλῆσθαι, οὔτε λάθρᾳ αὐτοὶ ἐκ τῆς ἀρχῆς λαμβάνοντες κλέπται. οὐδ᾽ αὖ τιμῆς ἕνεκα· οὐ γάρ εἰσι φιλότιμοι. 347b-e ‘Because of this,’ I said, ‘Good people will not be willing to rule for the sake of money or honour. For they do not wish to be called ‘hirelings’, as they would if they were openly to make a misthos for ruling, nor do they wish to be called ‘thieves’, as they would if they took a misthos themselves in secret. Nor, in turn, would they do it for the sake of honour: for they are not honour-loving.’ 5 We may be reminded of the passage in Laws 11 where the Athenian declares that the best of men would not participate in commodity-exchange (Pl. Lg. 11. 918c-e). 207 On Socrates’ account, money and honours would be entirely unsuitable as misthoi for good men. As a result, some compulsion (ἀνάγκη) was needed in order for them to take up office. Socrates went on: δεῖ δὴ αὐτοῖς ἀνάγκην προσεῖναι καὶ ζημίαν, εἰ μέλλουσιν ἐθέλειν ἄρχειν- ὅθεν κινδυνεύει τὸ ἑκόντα ἐπὶ τὸ ἄρχειν ἰέναι ἀλλὰ μὴ ἀνάγκην περιμένειν αἰσχρὸν νενομίσθαι- τῆς δὲ ζημίας μεγίστη τὸ ὑπὸ πονηροτέρου ἄρχεσθαι, ἐὰν μὴ αὐτὸς ἐθέλῃ ἄρχειν· ἣν δείσαντές μοι φαίνονται ἄρχειν, ὅταν ἄρχωσιν, οἱ ἐπιεικεῖς, καὶ τότε ἔρχονται ἐπὶ τὸ ἄρχειν οὐχ ὡς ἐπ᾽ ἀγαθόν τι ἰόντες οὐδ᾽ ὡς εὐπαθήσοντες ἐν αὐτῷ, ἀλλ᾽ ὡς ἐπ᾽ ἀναγκαῖον καὶ οὐκ ἔχοντες ἑαυτῶν βελτίοσιν ἐπιτρέψαι οὐδὲ ὁμοίοις. 347c-d So, there must be some compulsion or punishment for them, if they are going to be willing to rule- that is probably why it is considered shameful to seek office willingly (hekonta), and not to wait for compulsion. Now, the greatest punishment, if one is not willing to rule, is to be ruled by someone worse than oneself. It is because they fear this, in my view, that suitable people seem to take up office, when they choose to rule. They go towards rulership not as if they were going towards something good nor as though they were going to enjoy themselves in it, but as if towards something necessary, since they are unable to entrust it to anyone better than- or even, as good as- themselves. Good people, in Socrates’ view, would not desire office: they would instead take it up as a duty. If they did not, they might suffer the indignity of being ruled by someone inferior to themselves. In order that they might not suffer such an indignity, these people would take up office as if it were a duty, and not as if it were a source of gain. These reflections led Socrates to put forward a hypothesis: 208 ἐπεὶ κινδυνεύει πόλις ἀνδρῶν ἀγαθῶν εἰ γένοιτο, περιμάχητον ἂν εἶναι τὸ μὴ ἄρχειν ὥσπερ νυνὶ τὸ ἄρχειν, καὶ ἐνταῦθ᾽ ἂν καταφανὲς γενέσθαι ὅτι τῷ ὄντι ἀληθινὸς ἄρχων οὐ πέφυκε τὸ αὑτῷ συμφέρον σκοπεῖσθαι ἀλλὰ τὸ τῷ ἀρχομένῳ· ὥστε πᾶς ἂν ὁ γιγνώσκων τὸ ὠφελεῖσθαι μᾶλλον ἕλοιτο ὑπ᾽ ἄλλου ἢ ἄλλον ὠφελῶν πράγματα ἔχειν. 347d If a city should belong to good men, the citizens would fight in order not to rule, just as they now fight in order to rule. There it would be quite clear that anyone who is really and truly a ruler does not naturally seek what is advantageous to himself, but what is advantageous to his subject. As a result, anyone who knew such things would choose to be benefited by another rather than to take the trouble to benefit others. On the basis of his considerations about ruling, Socrates felt able to contest Thrasymachus’ claim that justice was merely what proved to be advantageous to the stronger. He thus turned his attention to another topic- that of whether the unjust man was more fortunate than the just one. I would argue that it impossible for us to regard the two kinds of misthos described here as being of equal value. Money and honours are subordinated to the other misthos: namely, the avoidance of the penalty that comes from being ruled by someone worse than yourself. And yet Socrates designates both by the mysterious term misthos. What implications does this have for our understanding of the relation between the two kinds of ‘wage?’ Let us recall that, after opposing the voluntary and the compensated, Socrates suggested that there were misthoi for willing (ἑκών) people as much as there are for wage- 209 earning folk. 6 Now, a misthos is something received from someone else in recompense for one’s services. Misthoi would thus properly belong to the economy: that is, to the realm in which goods are circulated. But the better kind of misthos- the one that the best men receive- is not something that one receives from someone else. As Socrates says, the greatest punishment for a good person is to be ruled by someone inferior to oneself and, in choosing to rule, a good person would stave off the possibility of such punishment. The better kind of misthos would thus be a misthos that the good person gives to themselves. We could then begin to see the outlines of an opposition between economy and non- economy, which is figured as a pure relation-to-oneself. 7 Plato’s Socrates would appear to value the latter over the former. But then he designates both types of relation with the term misthos. The term misthos thus allows us to argue that the supposedly non-economic is contaminated by its relation to the economic. We could contend that Plato needed this metaphor taken from the realm of exchange in order to characterise the pure self-relation described in this passage. The notion of a ‘wage’ or ‘reward’ would thus be the ‘supplement’ which Plato used effectively to invent the idea of a pure relation-to-oneself. The good kind of misthos would be a ‘wage’ or ‘reward’ that came before or without any relation to the other. But it would only have been thinkable in terms of its difference from the economic concept of a wage. Plato’s apparent reliance on this economic notion encourages us to reflect on an observation made by the anthropologist David Graeber. Graeber noted how ‘the language of 6 347a. 7 Derrida designates this idea of a pure relation-to-oneself with the term ‘ipseity’. In Rogues, he develops his understanding of this notion: ‘By ipseity I… wish to suggest some “I can,” or at the very least the power that gives itself its own law, its force of law, its self-representation, the sovereign and reappropriating gathering of self in the simultaneity of an assemblage or assembly, being together, “living together,” as we say’ (Derrida 2005, 11). For further discussion of ipseity, see Derrida (2005), 11-12. 210 the marketplace’ had ‘come to pervade very aspect of human life- even to provide the terminology for the moral and religious voices raised against it’ (Graeber 2011, 89). He cited Plato as one such voice raised against the market. But he could perhaps have reflected on the implications of this phenomenon. If Plato uses the language of the market against the market, maybe that attests to the character of the relationship between the market and other spheres of human activity. The two would be separate, but co-implicated- and this would explain why writers such as Plato expressed that which was supposedly removed from exchange in terms taken from the realm of exchange. My reading of misthos encourages us to recognise the importance of exchange in the Republic. Though Plato might want to present it as an inferior type of activity, his text is always open to another interpretation- one that reveals the centrality of exchange in the construction of his concepts. In the next section, we shall see how the passage at the end of Book Three can be subjected to a similar type of interpretation. Material wealth in the Republic At the outset, it is worth considering the historical significance of the terms chrusos and arguros in the context of ancient Greece. Chrusos is the word for ‘gold’ while arguros refers to ‘silver’. The diminutive form argurion came to be used to refer to coinage: for the Athenian polis generally made coins out of silver. 8 8 For a discussion of the history of Athenian coinage, see Kurke (1999), esp. 302-16; Kraay (1976), 55-77; Howgego (1995), 18-21, 44-45, 111-3; von Reden (1995), 171-217; Kroll (1998); Buttrey (1981), 82-3. 211 Whether argurion refers to pure silver or coinage, it designates a good of high value. However, the precise value of silver depends on the character of the economy in which it participates. Pure silver was considered a top-rank good in the gift-economy that preceded the invention of coinage. 9 Generally speaking, it would not have been traded with someone who was lower down the social hierarchy. But in the monetary economy of Athens, it was used to make coins- the universal commodity that facilitated the circulation of goods. Chrusos, on the other hand, was not, to our knowledge, used as a metaphor for money, even though some of the currencies in the Greek world were made of gold. 10 In the gift-economy, it was considered the highest of the top-rank goods- higher even than silver- and could not be traded down. This would all have changed in the monetary economy, where gold was in principle available to anyone who had enough money to afford it. This history is essential for understanding the significance of gold and silver in the Republic. For gold and silver are used to symbolise absolute divisions of social status and social worth there- especially in the so-called ‘Myth of the Metals’. 11 This myth communicates a version of the elitist ideology of ‘essentialism’ analysed by Leslie Kurke, which saw existing divisions of status as natural, and not as the result of convention. 12 Let us recall the context of the myth so as to analyse its essential traits. The character of Socrates has been discussing the constitution of an ideal city with Plato’s brothers, Glaucon and Adeimantus. They have decreed that the fiercest warriors in the city should 9 Kurke (1999), 10 and (1991), 94-107; Morris (1986), 8-9. 10 The Athenians themselves issued gold coinage in 407/6 when the Spartans cut them off from access to the silver mines at Laurium during the Peloponnesian War. See Ar. Fr. 720-33; Kurke (1999), 306; Robinson (1960), 8-15; Kraay (1976), 69-70; Howgego (1995), 111-2. 11 Pl. Rep. III. 414c-415c. For discussion of this myth, see Kurke (1999), 52, n. 25. 12 Kurke (1999), 45-60. 212 govern it, since they were the ones most capable of enforcing the city’s laws and protecting it from invaders. These ‘Guardians’ (φύλακες) were to be given a rigorous education. The best of them were to be chosen as the city’s rulers, while the others were to carry out the rulers’ bidding. In order for the people of the city to accept the social hierarchy, they were to be given a myth explaining the reasons for it. Though Socrates did not believe that the myth was true, he thought it necessary for the maintenance of the social order. He thus claimed that all the citizens had been formed deep beneath the earth by a god. Upon reaching the end of their gestation period, the earth- their mother- had sent them up to the surface, where they were supposed to deliberate on its behalf, defend it against attacks, and regard their fellow citizens as brothers (ἀδελφῶν)- inasmuch as they were also born from the earth (γηγενῶν). Socrates had then addressed the putative citizens themselves: ἐστὲ μὲν γὰρ δὴ πάντες οἱ ἐν τῇ πόλει ἀδελφοί, ὡς φήσομεν πρὸς αὐτοὺς μυθολογοῦντες, ἀλλ᾽ ὁ θεὸς πλάττων, ὅσοι μὲν ὑμῶν ἱκανοὶ ἄρχειν, χρυσὸν ἐν τῇ γενέσει συνέμειξεν αὐτοῖς, διὸ τιμιώτατοί εἰσιν· ὅσοι δ᾽ ἐπίκουροι, ἄργυρον σίδηρον δὲ καὶ χαλκὸν τοῖς τε γεωργοῖς καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις δημιουργοῖς. ἅτε οὖν συγγενεῖς ὄντες πάντες τὸ μὲν πολὺ ὁμοίους ἂν ὑμῖν αὐτοῖς γεννῷτε, ἔστι δ᾽ ὅτε ἐκ χρυσοῦ γεννηθείη ἂν ἀργυροῦν καὶ ἐξ ἀργύρου χρυσοῦν ἔκγονον καὶ τἆλλα πάντα οὕτως ἐξ ἀλλήλων. τοῖς οὖν ἄρχουσι καὶ πρῶτον καὶ μάλιστα παραγγέλλει ὁ θεός, ὅπως μηδενὸς οὕτω φύλακες ἀγαθοὶ ἔσονται μηδ᾽ οὕτω σφόδρα φυλάξουσι μηδὲν ὡς τοὺς ἐκγόνους, ὅτι αὐτοῖς τούτων ἐν ταῖς ψυχαῖς παραμέμεικται, καὶ ἐάν τε σφέτερος ἔκγονος ὑπόχαλκος ἢ ὑποσίδηρος γένηται, μηδενὶ τρόπῳ κατελεήσουσιν, ἀλλὰ τὴν τῇ φύσει προσήκουσαν τιμὴν ἀποδόντες ὤσουσιν εἰς δημιουργοὺς ἢ εἰς γεωργούς, καὶ ἂν αὖ ἐκ τούτων τις ὑπόχρυσος ἢ ὑπάργυρος φυῇ, τιμήσαντες ἀνάξουσι τοὺς μὲν εἰς φυλακήν, τοὺς δὲ 213 εἰς ἐπικουρίαν, ὡς χρησμοῦ ὄντος τότε τὴν πόλιν διαφθαρῆναι, ὅταν αὐτὴν ὁ σιδηροῦς φύλαξ ἢ ὁ χαλκοῦς φυλάξῃ. 415a-c ‘Although all of you in the city are brothers,’ we will say to them in telling our myth, ‘When the god was forming you, he mixed gold, at the time of your birth, into as many of you as are suited to rule, because they are the most valuable (or ‘most honourable’- timiōtatoi); silver into the auxiliaries; and iron and bronze into the farmers and other craftsmen. For the most part, you will produce children like yourselves; but, because you are all related, a silver child will occasionally be born to a golden parent, a golden child to a silver parent, and so on. Therefore, the first and greatest command to the rulers from the god is that there is nothing they must guard better or watch more carefully than the mixture of metals in the souls of their offspring. If an offspring of theirs is born with a mixture of iron or bronze, they must not pity him in any way, but assign him an honour appropriate to his nature and drive him out to join the craftsmen or the farmers. On the other hand, if an offspring of the latter is found to have a mixture of gold or silver, they will honour him and take him up to join the guardians or the auxiliaries. For there is an oracle that the city will be ruined if it ever has an iron or a bronze Guardian.’ Socrates finished by saying that the inhabitants of the city and their descendants would come to care more for their city and for each other if they came to internalise the lessons of this myth. In the myth of the metals, there are two important analogies. On the one hand, Socrates compares the different citizens to different types of metals: thus, the rulers are compared to gold, the auxiliaries to silver, and the farmers and workers to bronze and iron. These metals are ranked in terms of their relative values, and gold is presented as the most valuable of them all. On the other hand, Socrates seems to be comparing the rulers of the city 214 to metallurgists. Just as knowledge of metallurgy would enable a person to determine the quality of a piece of metal, so the knowledge possessed by the rulers would enable them to determine the quality of their fellow citizens. On Socrates’ telling, it was this knowledge that made it necessary for the rulers to govern the city and divide their fellow citizens up into the classes to which they naturally belonged. We might begin by asking why Socrates compares the rulers of the city to gold. More precisely, we must ask what was the specific significance of gold in Classical Greece. As Leslie Kurke has pointed out, gold was associated with sameness and consistency, but also with sovereignty, from as early as the time of Hesiod in the pre-coinage period. 13 By comparing the rulers to gold, Socrates suggests not only their superior status, but also the rightness of their rule. But then why does he compare them- at least implicitly- to metallurgists? For metallurgy was not considered a suitable profession for Greek nobles. 14 The comparison with the metallurgist would then seem, at first glance, to be an unflattering one. I suggest that we focus on the symbolic importance of metallurgy as a field of knowledge in the Classical period. The metallurgist focuses on the quality of a particular metallic object: he or she is able to tell how pure or otherwise that object is, and indeed, what metal or mix of metals it contains. The metallurgist is thus concerned with an object’s essence. He is not, qua metallurgist, concerned with what we might call its monetary or exchange value. According to Kurke, this is one reason why elitist poets from the period when coinage was spreading recur to the image of refining metals when describing the 13 Kurke (1999), 49-53. For the association of gold with sameness and consistency in Hesiod, see Hes. WD. 114; for the association of gold with sovereignty, see Hes. WD. 121-6. 14 For evidence of aristocratic disdain towards banausic activity, see Soph. Aj. 1121; Hdt. 2. 165; Pl. Leg. 644a. 215 interactions between the noble self and the deceitful outsider. For Kurke, ‘[t]he imagery of metallurgy is present because coinage is absent from our texts (and vice versa)- confronted by the double nature of coinage (so dispassionately analyzed by Aristotle two centuries later), elitist texts choose to admit only the essence of precious metal, denying and excluding the symbolic or functional aspect of “currency”’ (Kurke 1999, 48). The recurrence to the image of metallurgy would then be a reflex of a moral and political order that was threatened by the spread of coinage, and an element within an elitist discourse. As Kurke puts it, ‘The language of metals provides the medium through which the noble self and its proper relations are thought and articulated’ (Kurke 1999, 49). The Myth of the Metals naturalises the social order within Plato’s ideal city, justifying the rigid hierarchy in terms of the various citizens’ inherent qualities. I thus think it unhelpful to suggest, as Richard Seaford does, that the Guardians have gold and silver ‘money’ in their souls, since this reading seems to ignore the emphasis on the different qualities of the citizen classes in the Myth of the Metals. 15 I would suggest instead that this myth echoes the terms of an essentialist ideology. However, there are problems with attributing a straightforwardly essentialist or elitist position to Plato. For, as we shall see, it appears that he was also anxious about the capacity of material goods to confer social worth- a capacity that would undermine the idea that some people were naturally superior to others. It is in this connection that Plato’s Socrates comes to think of the Guardians as having a kind of gold or silver money (νόμισμα, Pl. Rep. 416e- 417a) in their souls. 15 Seaford (2004), 259-60. 216 Let us verify this by continuing our reading of Book Three. After relating the Myth of the Metals, Socrates considers the question of how the Guardians should be housed. In his view, the Guardians should be given their own barracks from which they might most easily be able to defend the city and punish wrongdoers within the citizen body. Though the Guardians’ living quarters must provide basic necessities such as protection against heat and cold, Socrates does not want to afford them any luxury. He declares that their living quarters must be ‘suited to soldiers’ (στρατιωτικαί, 415e) rather than to money-makers (χρηματιστικαί, 416a). When Glaucon asks for clarification on the distinction between the two, Socrates explains his thinking with an analogy: δεινότατον γάρ που πάντων καὶ αἴσχιστον ποιμέσι τοιούτους γε καὶ οὕτω τρέφειν κύνας ἐπικούρους ποιμνίων, ὥστε ὑπὸ ἀκολασίας ἢ λιμοῦ ἤ τινος ἄλλου κακοῦ ἔθους αὐτοὺς τοὺς κύνας ἐπιχειρῆσαι τοῖς προβάτοις κακουργεῖν καὶ ἀντὶ κυνῶν λύκοις ὁμοιωθῆναι. 416a For it is surely the most terrible and most shameful of all things for shepherds to rear dogs as auxiliaries to help them with their flocks in such a way that the dogs themselves- because of ill- discipline, hunger, or some other bad condition- try to do evil to the sheep and thus resemble wolves instead of dogs. Here, Socrates alludes to an earlier passage where he compared the Guardians to hounds. 16 He suggests that a number of factors could cause the soldiers to turn upon their fellow citizens. They would then behave more like wolves preying upon sheep than sheepdogs protecting their sheep. 16 Pl. Rep. 375a-376c. 217 Though the education that the soldiers had received was supposed to prevent this from happening, Socrates feels compelled to lay down additional measures. He thus makes the following recommendations: πρῶτον μὲν οὐσίαν κεκτημένον μηδεμίαν μηδένα ἰδίαν, ἂν μὴ πᾶσα ἀνάγκη· ἔπειτα οἴκησιν καὶ ταμιεῖον μηδενὶ εἶναι μηδὲν τοιοῦτον, εἰς ὃ οὐ πᾶς ὁ βουλόμενος εἴσεισι· τὰ δ᾽ ἐπιτήδεια, ὅσων δέονται ἄνδρες ἀθληταὶ πολέμου σώφρονές τε καὶ ἀνδρεῖοι, ταξαμένους παρὰ τῶν ἄλλων πολιτῶν δέχεσθαι μισθὸν τῆς φυλακῆς τοσοῦτον ὅσον μήτε περιεῖναι αὐτοῖς εἰς τὸν ἐνιαυτὸν μήτε ἐνδεῖν· φοιτῶντας δὲ εἰς συσσίτια ὥσπερ ἐστρατοπεδευμένους κοινῇ ζῆν. 416d-e First, none of them should have acquired any private property (ousian) that is not wholly necessary. Second, none of them should have houses or store-rooms that are not open for all to enter at will. Such provisions as are required by temperate and courageous men, who are warrior-athletes, they should receive from the other citizens as wages (misthon) for their guardianship, the amount being fixed so that there is neither a shortfall nor a surplus at the end of the year. They should have common messes to go to, and should live together like soldiers in a camp. The Guardians would thus be fed, housed, and equipped by the other citizens. Socrates describes the provisions given to the Guardians as a misthos. I must thus disagree with Andrea Nightingale’s characterisation of the Platonic philosopher as a ‘mercenary who receives no wage’ (Nightingale 2002, 91-2). For Plato’s Guardian class- from which the philosophers are drawn- are not removed from systems of exchange, even if Plato may have liked them to be. The misthos that they receive is given by the producer-class to the Guardian class as a whole. Within the Guardian class, however, there would be almost no private property, and certainly no private living spaces. Socrates’ measures seem to have been aimed 218 at preserving the integrity of the Guardian class. They would share everything they possessed amongst themselves. Socrates then sets down another series of measures: χρυσίον δὲ καὶ ἀργύριον εἰπεῖν αὐτοῖς ὅτι θεῖον παρὰ θεῶν ἀεὶ ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἔχουσι καὶ οὐδὲν προσδέονται τοῦ ἀνθρωπείου, οὐδὲ ὅσια τὴν ἐκείνου κτῆσιν τῇ τοῦ θνητοῦ χρυσοῦ κτήσει συμμειγνύντας μιαίνειν, διότι πολλὰ καὶ ἀνόσια περὶ τὸ τῶν πολλῶν νόμισμα γέγονεν, τὸ παρ᾽ ἐκείνοις δὲ ἀκήρατον· ἀλλὰ μόνοις αὐτοῖς τῶν ἐν τῇ πόλει μεταχειρίζεσθαι καὶ ἅπτεσθαι χρυσοῦ καὶ ἀργύρου οὐ θέμις, οὐδ᾽ ὑπὸ τὸν αὐτὸν ὄροφον ἰέναι οὐδὲ περιάψασθαι οὐδὲ πίνειν ἐξ ἀργύρου ἢ χρυσοῦ. 416e-417a We shall tell them that they have divine gold (chrusion) and silver (argurion) from the gods that is always in their souls, and have no need of human gold in addition. And we will add that it is impious for them to defile this divine possession by possessing an admixture of mortal gold (tou thnētou chrusou), because many impious deeds have been done for the sake of the currency (nomismata) of the masses, whereas their sort is pure. No, they alone among the city’s population are forbidden by divine law to handle or even touch gold and silver (chrusou kai argurou). They must not be under the same roof as these metals, wear them as jewellery, or drink from gold and silver goblets (ex argurou ē chrusou). Let us note how Socrates differentiates gold (χρυσός) and silver (ἀργύριον) ‘in the soul’ from ‘mortal’ gold and silver. He seems to associate mortal gold and silver with economy and exchange. This is why he links it to coinage (νόμισμα). Divine gold and silver, on the other hand, cannot be traded: for these exist in the Guardians’ souls. ‘Gold and silver in the soul’ would then figure, in Richard Seaford’s phrase, a kind of value ‘detached from 219 circulation’ (Seaford 2004, 259). Socrates also suggests that the possession of mortal gold or silver would ‘defile’ or ‘contaminate’ (μιαίνειν) the ‘divine’ gold and silver in the souls of Guardians and thus forbids them from having any contact with these metals. This passage makes it impossible to take ‘mortal’ chrusos and argurion for their divine counterparts. The latter are absolutely separate from and superior to the former. But the relationship between the two is closer than Socrates would have us think. Socrates may wish to present the latter as a lesser version of the former. But he can only think and name ‘divine’ gold and silver- which is supposedly aneconomic- by means of the terms chruson and argurion, which are notions that are associated with the economy. He would thus appear to need market gold and silver- the very things that he condemns- in order to designate their aneconomic counterparts in the Guardians’ souls. The relationship between ‘divine’ gold and silver and ‘mortal’ gold and silver would then appear to be one of co-implication, and not an opposition. ‘Gold in the soul’ would only be conceivable in terms of its difference from ‘mortal’ gold. The same could be said of ‘silver in the soul’ and ‘mortal’ silver. Far from being opposed to each other, the boundary between the two would in fact be porous and unstable. 17 One might object that ‘mortal’ gold is material, while ‘gold in the soul’ is supposed to be immaterial. But how can the immaterial be thought except in terms of its difference from the material? Plato may here anticipate and make possible the denigration of the bodily and the material that we find in later Christian thought. 18 But in the Platonic text itself, the relation between material ‘mortal’ gold and immaterial ‘gold in the soul’ is still one of co- 17 Cf. the co-implication of ‘sameness’ and ‘otherness’ in the Sophist, which Plato insists are in fact polar opposites. See the section entitled ‘Being and Otherness’ in Ch. 3, p. 34-46. 18 For a discussion of the devaluation of the bodily in the Platonic tradition, see Porter (2010). 220 implication- even if a certain force encourages us to regard ‘mortal’ gold as being inferior to its ‘divine’ counterpart. This reading of chruson and argurion has even further implications if we consider the context of the passage. After banning the Guardians from using gold or silver, Socrates outlines the thinking behind his prescriptions: καὶ οὕτω μὲν σῴζοιντό τ᾽ ἂν καὶ σῴζοιεν τὴν πόλιν· ὁπότε δ᾽ αὐτοὶ γῆν τε ἰδίαν καὶ οἰκίας καὶ νομίσματα κτήσονται, οἰκονόμοι μὲν καὶ γεωργοὶ ἀντὶ φυλάκων ἔσονται, δεσπόται δ᾽ ἐχθροὶ ἀντὶ συμμάχων τῶν ἄλλων πολιτῶν γενήσονται, μισοῦντες δὲ δὴ καὶ μισούμενοι καὶ ἐπιβουλεύοντες καὶ ἐπιβουλευόμενοι διάξουσι πάντα τὸν βίον, πολὺ πλείω καὶ μᾶλλον δεδιότες τοὺς ἔνδον ἢ τοὺς ἔξωθεν πολεμίους, θέοντες ἤδη τότε ἐγγύτατα ὀλέθρου αὐτοί τε καὶ ἡ ἄλλη πόλις. 417a-b And by behaving in that way, they [the Guardians] would save both themselves and the city. But if they acquire private land, houses, and money (nomismata) themselves, they will be household managers (oikonomoi) and farmers instead of Guardians- hostile masters of the other citizens instead of their allies. They will spend their whole lives hating and being hated, plotting and being plotted against, much more afraid of internal than of external enemies- already rushing, in fact, to the brink of their own destruction and that of the rest of the city as well. Socrates seems to believe that the Guardians would no longer remain Guardians if they were to possess money. Instead of protecting their fellow citizens, they would antagonise them, leading to the mutual destruction of the Guardian class and the money- making class. This might lead us to suspect that the Guardians and the money-makers are closer than they might appear. Rather than seeing the former as being absolutely different 221 from and superior to the latter, as the hierarchical relationship between them might suggest, we might instead regard the Guardians as being constituted by their difference from the producer class. They would be themselves, existing in a supposedly non-economic realm, only insofar as they were removed from the city’s economy. Once again, the notion of economy would have been necessary for thinking a place that was supposedly beyond exchange and untouched by it. We may conclude, then, that gold, silver, and money have greater importance for Plato than has previously been recognised. Though he subordinates them to abstract social values and, indeed, to the abstract idea of ‘social value,’ he seems unable to express the value of these values except by reference to these goods. 19 This would help to account for an extraordinary tension that pervades the whole dialogue. For Plato’s Socrates insists that there are goods of greater value even than gold. A passage in Book One serves to illustrate this point. After being criticised by Thrasymachus for his inability to answer the question of what justice is, Socrates had compared their enquiry into the nature of justice to a search for gold: μὴ γὰρ δὴ οἴου, εἰ μὲν χρυσίον ἐζητοῦμεν, οὐκ ἄν ποτε ἡμᾶς ἑκόντας εἶναι ὑποκατακλίνεσθαι ἀλλήλοις ἐν τῇ ζητήσει καὶ διαφθείρειν τὴν εὕρεσιν αὐτοῦ, δικαιοσύνην δὲ ζητοῦντας, πρᾶγμα πολλῶν χρυσίων τιμιώτερον, ἔπειθ᾽ οὕτως ἀνοήτως ὑπείκειν ἀλλήλοις καὶ οὐ 19 As Richard Seaford points out with reference to this passage, ‘value may be imagined detached from circulation’ (Seaford 2004, 259). But he does not ask how value may be imagined detached from circulation. At the same time, his statement contains the answer: value that is detached from circulation would be understood in terms of its difference from the value that goods have when they are in circulation. We may understand here something like the Marxian distinction between use-value and exchange-value. 222 σπουδάζειν ὅτι μάλιστα φανῆναι αὐτό. οἴου γε σύ, ὦ φίλε. ἀλλ᾽ οἶμαι οὐ δυνάμεθα· ἐλεεῖσθαι οὖν ἡμᾶς πολὺ μᾶλλον εἰκός ἐστίν που ὑπὸ ὑμῶν τῶν δεινῶν ἢ χαλεπαίνεσθαι. 336e-337a If we were searching for gold, we would never willingly give way to each other, if by doing so we would destroy our chance of finding it. So, do not think that in searching for justice, a thing more valuable (timiōteron) than a large amount of gold, we would foolishly give way to one another or be less than completely serious about finding it. You for your part think that, my friend. But I think that we are incapable of finding it: so it is surely far more appropriate for us to be pitied by clever people such as yourself than to be treated harshly by you. The adjective timios can mean ‘valuable,’ as I have translated it here, but it can also mean ‘honourable.’ Socrates could be saying that justice is more valuable than gold, thereby presenting himself as somebody who values abstract ideals over material goods. But Socrates could also be suggesting that the pursuit of justice is a more honourable one than the pursuit of gold. It would then appear that he disdains those who are excessively devoted to the pursuit of material wealth. 20 In the passage above, gold functions as a point of comparison against which the value of justice can be measured. In a passage from Book Seven, it plays a similar role. After Glaucon has compared rulers in his own day unfavourably to the rulers of their ideal city, Socrates makes a claim as to how their ideal city may be realised: οὕτω γὰρ ἔχει, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὦ ἑταῖρε· εἰ μὲν βίον ἐξευρήσεις ἀμείνω τοῦ ἄρχειν τοῖς μέλλουσιν ἄρξειν, ἔστι σοι δυνατὴ γενέσθαι πόλις εὖ οἰκουμένη· ἐν μόνῃ γὰρ αὐτῇ ἄρξουσιν οἱ τῷ ὄντι 20 See also Socrates’ criticism of money-makers at Pl. Rep. 330c. 223 πλούσιοι, οὐ χρυσίου ἀλλ᾽ οὗ δεῖ τὸν εὐδαίμονα πλουτεῖν, ζωῆς ἀγαθῆς τε καὶ ἔμφρονος. εἰ δὲ πτωχοὶ καὶ πεινῶντες ἀγαθῶν ἰδίων ἐπὶ τὰ δημόσια ἴασιν, ἐντεῦθεν οἰόμενοι τἀγαθὸν δεῖν ἁρπάζειν, οὐκ ἔστι· περιμάχητον γὰρ τὸ ἄρχειν γιγνόμενον, οἰκεῖος ὢν καὶ ἔνδον ὁ τοιοῦτος πόλεμος αὐτούς τε ἀπόλλυσι καὶ τὴν ἄλλην πόλιν. 520e-521a ‘That’s right, comrade,’ I said. ‘If you can find a way of life that is better than ruling for those who are going to rule, your well-governed city will become a possibility. For in it alone the truly rich will rule- those who are not rich in gold but in the wealth that the happy must have: namely, a good and sensible life. But if beggars and those who are hungry for private goods go into public life, thinking that the good is to be seized there, then the city is impossible. For when ruling becomes something that is fought over, such civil and internal warfare destroys these men and the rest of the city too.’ Socrates unequivocally states that a good and sensible life is the true ‘wealth’ for somebody who wants to be happy. Gold would not be sufficient to provide ‘wealth’ of this kind. Nevertheless, Socrates relies on the idea of material wealth to express the idea of spiritual wealth. As I have argued throughout, metaphors such as these are not arbitrary, but necessary for thinking that which is supposedly beyond economy. Plato’s attitude towards material wealth in the Republic would then be as complicated as his attitude towards exchange. The same could be said of his stance with regard to commerce. I shall make the case for this point of view in the next section. Trade in the Republic According to the Classicist Richard Seaford, Plato is ‘contemptuous of commerce’ (Seaford 2004, 260). This opinion is shared by Plato’s philosophical commentators: indeed, 224 Myles Burnyeat took it as the basic premise of his argument for the construal and translation of Apology chapter 30, lines 2-4. 21 Seaford and Burnyeat are certainly right in one respect: Plato’s characters express disdain for trade and those who engage in it. To take one example, let us recall Adeimantus’ claim in Book Two of the Republic that those engaged in retail- trade only did so because they were physically unfit for any other sort of work. 22 However, I would contend that monetary exchange plays a more important role in Plato’s thought than Seaford, Burnyeat, or indeed, Adeimantus would lead us to believe. This may lead us to re- evaluate the traditional reading of Plato, and also to reconsider Seaford’s broader claims about the impact of money on the early Greek mind. The most important passage for my purposes occurs after Socrates’ construction of an ideal city which is ruled by philosopher-kings. I shall read through this passage closely, paying particular attention to the term arithmos. The word arithmos refers to a ‘number,’ an ‘amount,’ or a ‘sum.’ It is thus already a palpably abstract concept. But there are two ways of understanding the English term ‘number.’ The word ‘number’ could, on the one hand, refer to an ‘abstract number’ or it could refer to a ‘certain number of definite objects.’ The German language attempts to avoid this ambiguity: the German word Zahl is used to refer to an ‘abstract number,’ while Anzahl refers to a ‘number of definite objects.’ The historian Jacob Klein argued that the ancient Greeks did not make a similar distinction in their language, and that the Greek term arithmos ‘never means anything other than a definite number of definite objects’ (Klein 1968, 24). 21 Burnyeat (2003). 22 See for example Pl. Rep. II. 371c-d, where Adeimantus claims that retail-traders were people who were unfit for any sort of physical work. 225 I think we can complicate Klein’s thesis by following Plato’s thinking of number in the Republic. For the word arithmos is certainly used there to refer to ‘definite objects’ and to ‘abstract numbers.’ But this does not mean that we should necessarily translate arithmos as meaning Zahl rather than Anzahl. To anticipate somewhat, I shall argue that arithmos is undecidable in this dialogue- rather like the pharmakon of the Phaedrus or, as Michael Naas has recently shown, the term automatos in the Statesman. In order to show what is happening to the term arithmos in the passage, I shall often draw attention to it in parentheses or simply leave it untranslated. Let’s turn directly to the relevant passage in the Republic. Towards the beginning of Book Seven, Socrates discusses the kind of education that ought to be given to the Guardians of the city. He argues that they should pursue mathematics at the first stage of their education because the study of number (ἀριθμός) would draw their souls towards the knowledge of Being. This would be of benefit to them, since they were both warriors and philosophers. Socrates thus suggests that they prescribe it by law in their city: προσῆκον δὴ τὸ μάθημα ἂν εἴη, ὦ Γλαύκων, νομοθετῆσαι καὶ πείθειν τοὺς μέλλοντας ἐν τῇ πόλει τῶν μεγίστων μεθέξειν ἐπὶ λογιστικὴν ἰέναι καὶ ἀνθάπτεσθαι αὐτῆς μὴ ἰδιωτικῶς, ἀλλ᾽ ἕως ἂν ἐπὶ θέαν τῆς τῶν ἀριθμῶν φύσεως ἀφίκωνται τῇ νοήσει αὐτῇ, οὐκ ὠνῆς οὐδὲ πράσεως χάριν ὡς ἐμπόρους ἢ καπήλους μελετῶντας, ἀλλ᾽ ἕνεκα πολέμου τε καὶ αὐτῆς τῆς ψυχῆς ῥᾳστώνης μεταστροφῆς ἀπὸ γενέσεως ἐπ᾽ ἀλήθειάν τε καὶ οὐσίαν. 525b-c Then it would be fitting, Glaucon, to prescribe this subject by law and to persuade those who are going to take part in the greatest matters in the city to go in for calculation and to take it up, not as laymen do, but staying with it until they reach the point at which they see (epi thean) the nature (physēōs) of the numbers (tōn arithmōn) by means of understanding itself; not like merchants and 226 retailers, caring about it for the sake of buying and selling, but for the sake of war and for ease in turning the soul itself around from becoming to truth and being. Pl. Rep. VII. 525b-c. There is quite a lot to unpack in this passage. First of all, Socrates differentiates between arithmetic carried out for the sake of trade, arithmetic practised for the sake of war, and arithmetic for the purpose of turning one’s soul towards being. He decrees that the Guardians should learn the second and third types of arithmetic, but not the first. Socrates also talks of seeing the nature of the numbers- that is, the arithmoi- themselves. It would appear that he is here talking about abstract numbers, rather than countable things. Let’s deal with a question that arises from this last point. If the arithmoi in question here are ‘abstract numbers’ rather than ‘countable objects,’ we should presumably think of the word for ‘sight’ (thea) as a kind of ‘metaphor’, since abstract numbers belong to the intelligible realm, which is invisible. But what is the status of this ‘metaphor’? Is it one that Socrates could somehow do without? It seems Socrates would have us think so: for he will say later that the faculty of sight imitates the vision of the soul (Pl. Rep. 532a). Nevertheless, his recourse to the ‘metaphor’ of ‘sight’ here suggests that things might actually be the other way around. We might thus imagine that he conceives of the ‘eye of the soul’ (τὸ τῆς ψυχῆς ὄμμα, 533d) on the basis of the bodily ‘eye’, and the soul’s vision on the basis of the human faculty of vision. These questions gain in pertinence when we consider the rest of this passage from Book Seven. After Glaucon agrees with Socrates’ proposed law, Socrates comments on the usefulness of arithmetic when it was practised for knowledge, and not for the sake of trade (τοῦ καπηλεῦειν). When Glaucon asks ‘In what way?’ Socrates replies: 227 τοῦτό γε, ὃ νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν, ὡς σφόδρα ἄνω ποι ἄγει τὴν ψυχὴν καὶ περὶ αὐτῶν τῶν ἀριθμῶν ἀναγκάζει διαλέγεσθαι, οὐδαμῇ ἀποδεχόμενον ἐάν τις αὐτῇ ὁρατὰ ἢ ἁπτὰ σώματα ἔχοντας ἀριθμοὺς προτεινόμενος διαλέγηται. οἶσθα γάρ που τοὺς περὶ ταῦτα δεινοὺς αὖ ὡς, ἐάν τις αὐτὸ τὸ ἓν ἐπιχειρῇ τῷ λόγῳ τέμνειν, καταγελῶσί τε καὶ οὐκ ἀποδέχονται, ἀλλ᾽ ἐὰν σὺ κερματίζῃς αὐτό, ἐκεῖνοι πολλαπλασιοῦσιν, εὐλαβούμενοι μή ποτε φανῇ τὸ ἓν μὴ ἓν ἀλλὰ πολλὰ μόρια. 525d-e In the very way that we were talking about just now: it leads the soul powerfully upwards and compels it to discuss the numbers (arithmōn) themselves, never permitting it if anyone puts forward for discussion numbers (arithmous) that are attached to visible or tangible bodies. 525d Here, Socrates distinguishes between numbers that are attached to visible or tangible bodies and abstract numbers that are accessible only to thought. The distinction thus resembles that between Zahlen and Anzahlen in the German language. But in the Republic, both ‘abstract numbers’ and ‘numbers for counting things’ are designated by the word arithmos. Socrates associates the abstract numbers with arithmetic practised for the sake of knowledge, and the numbers for counting definite objects with arithmetic for the sake of trade. Socrates thus presents us with two distinct types of arithmoi that are associated with two separate types of arithmetic. What are we to make of the relationship between them? Socrates explicitly tells us that counting for the sake of knowledge is more useful and refined than counting for the purposes of buying and selling. If abstract numbers are associated with the former and countable things with the latter, then it would appear that Socrates places abstract numbers over numbers that are attached to visible or tangible bodies. 228 Socrates develops his characterisation of the two kinds of arithmos in the next lines. It is here that the example of money seems to have the greatest importance for him. He says to his interlocutors: οἶσθα γάρ που τοὺς περὶ ταῦτα δεινοὺς αὖ ὡς, ἐάν τις αὐτὸ τὸ ἓν ἐπιχειρῇ τῷ λόγῳ τέμνειν, καταγελῶσί τε καὶ οὐκ ἀποδέχονται, ἀλλ᾽ ἐὰν σὺ κερματίζῃς αὐτό, ἐκεῖνοι πολλαπλασιοῦσιν, εὐλαβούμενοι μή ποτε φανῇ τὸ ἓν μὴ ἓν ἀλλὰ πολλὰ μόρια. 525e For you know, I suppose, the people who are clever about these matters: if someone tries to divide the ‘one’ itself, they laugh and do not allow it, but if you divide it up (lit. ‘change it up into smaller denominations’), they multiply them, taking care that the ‘one’ never appears to be, not one, but many parts. 525e. I have rendered the verb kermatizein as ‘to divide,’ but I would argue, following Heidegger, that the specific image is that of changing up coins. For kermatizein is derived from the noun kerma, which could mean a ‘fragment’ or else a ‘small coin,’ and kermatizein itself could mean ‘to change a large denomination of coin into a smaller one.’ 23 This image helps us to understand what is at stake in the passage. The theoreticians mentioned by Socrates insisted that the number one was indivisible- presumably by virtue of the fact that it was itself a unity. They apparently found themselves being confronted by the fact that the 23 The verb kermatizein is etymologically related to the noun kerma (‘coin’ or ‘fragment’). A passage from Aristophanes indicates that the kermata were specifically the small bronze coins into which large denominations (such as silver tetradrachms) could be divided (Ar. Bi. 1108). Plato often uses the verb kermatizein, and the related verb katakermatizein, to describe the fragmentation and division of things that are not money. I follow Martin Heidegger in regarding these usages as improper or metaphorical usages of a term that properly refers to the changing up of large denominations into smaller denominations (Heidegger 1997, 389). For the use of kermatizein (and katakermatizein) in the context of a discussion of virtue (ἀρετή), see Pl. Men. 79a-c. For the use of katakermatizein in the context of a discussion about human nature, see Pl. Rep. III. 395b. For the use of katakermatizein to configure the relations between the parts of Non-being, see Pl. Soph. 257c; for a discussion of this latter passage, see Heidegger (1997), 389-91. 229 number one often is divisible: say, when one is changing up one silver tetradrachm into many smaller bronze coins. The theoreticians excluded such practices from consideration: thus, they would forbid someone from arguing that the number one could be divided on the basis of real-life examples, such as the division of a single large denomination into many smaller ones. They would only admit discussions of the abstract number one, and hypothesised that this number was the basic unit of all other numbers, which would make it- theoretically, at least- indivisible. Arithmoi of this kind, as Glaucon points out, are accessible only to thought and cannot be grasped (μεταχειρίζειν) in any other way. Socrates argues that the study of these abstract numbers compels the soul to use understanding itself on the truth itself, and that those who are most naturally capable of it are generally the quickest to learn every other subject. He decreed that those who were naturally among the very best (οἱ ἄριστοι τὰς φύσεις, 526c) should be educated in this ‘theoretical’ mathematics, and not in the arithmetic necessary for trade. Socrates would thus have considered the study of abstract numbers as being distinct from and superior to the basic arithmetic involved in trade. Both activities involve the counting of arithmoi, albeit arithmoi of different types. But here we run into two sets of interpretative questions. The first concerns Socrates association of theoretical mathematics- the study of abstract numbers- with arithmetic for the sake of war. Why does he see the latter as being essentially linked to the former, and separated from arithmetic for the sake of trade? Here, we might invoke a historical or ideological explanation. Ancient Greek aristocrats justified their position in society with reference to their supposed prowess on the battlefield. Warfare was thus a supposedly noble activity. Trade, on the other hand, was associated with the lower orders. Leslie Kurke has shown how, from the aristocratic perspective, trade was 230 essentially a form of deceit carried out for the sake of unjust gain. 24 In valorising warfare over trade, Plato- the author of the dialogue- would have been typical of many other aristocratic men of his time. The historical explanation would explain why Socrates places arithmetic for the sake of war over arithmetic for buying and selling. This leads us to our second question: how are we to interpret the term arithmos? The German translator Wilhelm Wiegand translates arithmos as Zahl throughout this passage. He thus seems to follow Plato’s intention: for Socrates insists that the arithmoi discussed by the unnamed theoreticians are accessible only to thought, and would thus be Zahlen rather than Anzahlen. But then what are we to make of Jacob Klein’s contention that ‘arithmos never means anything other than ‘a definite number of definite objects’’ (Klein 1968, 84) and thus that it should always be translated as Anzahl? Klein’s historical argument would certainly complicate the idea that we should translate arithmos as Zahl. I think that a Derridean reading of arithmos helps us to navigate this conundrum. I would contend that the term arithmos here makes possible the later distinction between Zahlen and Anzahlen- that is, between ‘abstract numbers’ and ‘numbers of definite objects.’ But in this passage in the Republic, where arithmos is used to refer to abstract numbers, it seems to contain both possibilities without being reducible to either. I would thus suggest that we leave it sheltered from translation, rather than reduce it to an interpretation that it itself has made possible. The term arithmos also gives us grounds for reconsidering the order of precedence in Plato’s thinking. Plato is evidently thinking of abstract numbers rather than definite numbers of definite objects in Book Seven of the Republic. The translation of arithmos by Zahl would 24 Kurke (1989). 231 respect this impression. But a more rigorously historical reading would take Anzahl as the basic meaning of arithmos. If Socrates is referring to Zahlen rather than Anzahlen, he must then be using arithmos as a metaphor. But how are we to interpret this metaphor? A Platonist reading- one that makes Plato’s intention the sole guarantor of the text’s meaning- would interpret arithmos here as a ‘mere’ metaphor. Even if arithmos properly means a ‘definite number of definite objects,’ it is clearly being used to mean an ‘abstract number’ here, and interpreters of the dialogue should thus translate it in this way. But the term arithmos is also open to another interpretation- one that undermines the Platonist reading. Rather than taking the absolute separation of abstract numbers from definite, countable objects for granted, one could question the character of the difference between them. We could argue that abstract numbers are in fact only conceivable in terms of their difference from countable objects. This would be one way of explaining why Plato uses the same term- arithmos- for both. One could thus argue that Plato needed the notion of a ‘definite number of definite objects’ in order to ground his conception of an ‘abstract number.’ In other words, arithmos is not a ‘mere’ metaphor here, but a necessary one. The term arithmos would thus allow us to reconfigure the relationship between ‘abstract numbers’ and ‘countable objects’ as one of co-implication, rather than an opposition. My reading of arithmos has implications for our wider interpretation of the passage. For example, it would allow us to reinterpret the relationship between theoretical mathematics and arithmetic for the purposes of trade. Rather than seeing the former as being separate from and superior to the latter, as Socrates suggests it is, we could argue that Socrates’ conception of theoretical mathematics is constituted by its difference from the arithmetic of the traders. As with abstract numbers and definite numbers of definite objects, the two types of calculation would be co-implicated, and not opposed to each other. From my 232 perspective, it is particularly notable that Socrates uses the language of monetary exchange when describing the numbers that are attached to visible and tangible bodies. It suggests that he has a particular kind of body in mind: namely, that of coinage. One could thus argue that the despised practice of counting for the purposes of trade is the basis upon which Plato thinks theoretical mathematics. This makes it difficult to say with Seaford that Plato was simply contemptuous of commerce. 25 If anything, monetary exchange seems to have provided Plato with the means to conceptualise a mathematics that did not have gain as its purpose. Thus, while I have sympathy for Seaford’s suggestion that commerce ‘was a factor in the genesis of Greek mathematics’ (Seaford 2004, 275, n. 46), I am more concerned than he is to question Plato’s ‘need to elevate mathematics over its commercial use’. Over the course of this chapter, I have argued that the notions of exchange, material wealth, and commerce played an unacknowledged role in Plato’s thought. In the next section, I shall contend that the notion of monetary exchange even underlies Plato’s characterisation of dialectic- the activity characteristic of the philosopher. This contention leads me to reconsider Richard Seaford’s claim that the invention of coinage was a factor in ‘a crucial and unprecedented conceptual transformation’ (Seaford 2004, 6). Money and the Form of the Good As a first step, let us turn to the end of Book Six of the Republic. Having spent most of Book Six arguing that the ideal city would only be possible if it were ruled by philosopher- 25 Seaford (2004), 260. 233 kings, Socrates turns to the question of how these kings should be educated. In his view, the philosophers must learn to view the Form of the Good itself- that which all good things have in common. However, Socrates was unable to say exactly what the Form of the Good was. He thus proposed another solution: ἀλλ᾽, ὦ μακάριοι, αὐτὸ μὲν τί ποτ᾽ ἐστὶ τἀγαθὸν ἐάσωμεν τὸ νῦν εἶναι- πλέον γάρ μοι φαίνεται ἢ κατὰ τὴν παροῦσαν ὁρμὴν ἐφικέσθαι τοῦ γε δοκοῦντος ἐμοὶ τὰ νῦν- ὃς δὲ ἔκγονός τε τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ φαίνεται καὶ ὁμοιότατος ἐκείνῳ, λέγειν ἐθέλω, εἰ καὶ ὑμῖν φίλον, εἰ δὲ μή, ἐᾶν. 506d-e Let us lay aside what the Good itself is for the time being, blessed fellows- for to attain to my current surmise of it seems to me beyond our present trajectory- but I do wish to speak of what seems to be both the offspring (ekgonos) of the Good and that which resembles it most closely, if that pleases you, and if not, to let the matter drop. Here, Socrates seems to be characterising his account of the Good as its offspring (ἔκγονος). It would thus be something that was engendered by the Good and which resembled it closely, but which was not itself the Good. In reply, Glaucon said: λέγε· εἰς αὖθις γὰρ τοῦ πατρὸς ἀποτείσεις τὴν διήγησιν. 506e Tell us, then: you will pay us back (apoteiseis) with an explanation of the father another time. 234 Glaucon treats Socrates’ account of the Good itself as something that he owes them, even if he does not give it to them at the present moment. Socrates responded to Glaucon’s demand with a revealing joke: βουλοίμην ἄν, εἶπον, ἐμέ τε δύνασθαι αὐτὴν ἀποδοῦναι καὶ ὑμᾶς κομίσασθαι, ἀλλὰ μὴ ὥσπερ νῦν τοὺς τόκους μόνον. τοῦτον δὲ δὴ οὖν τὸν τόκον τε καὶ ἔκγονον αὐτοῦ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ κομίσασθε. 507a ‘I wish that I were able to repay (apodounai) and you to receive the payment [autēn, which refers to the diēgēsis of which Glaucon spoke] and not merely the interest (tokous), as now,’ I said. ‘So here, take this interest (tokon) and offspring (ekgonon) of the good itself. Here, Socrates is responding to Glaucon’s demand to be told about the Form of the Good. He is responding in particular to Glaucon’s characterisation of the Good itself as a ‘father’ (πατήρ). The word patēr can mean ‘father’ but it can also refer to the principal on a loan. 26 Socrates thus presents his account of the Good not only as the offspring (ἔκγονος) of the Good, but as the interest (τόκος) arising from it. The word tokos, which is etymologically related to the verb tiktein (‘to give birth’), can mean ‘offspring’- thus making it synonymous with the term ekgonos- but it can also refer to the interest on a loan. Socrates would then be suggesting that the explanation of the offspring of the good, which he intends to give to his interlocutors, is like the interest on a principal (πατήρ) that he has thus far failed to pay off. The account that he intends to give would thus be like money itself. 26 As Derrida points out, Plato himself uses the word in this way later in the dialogue when describing the way in which oligarchies degenerate into democracies (Derrida 1981, 82). His Socrates declares that money-makers tend to ignore the growing unrest and inequality in their cities: ‘But these money-makers, with down-bent heads, pretending not even to see them, but inserting the sting of their money into any of the remainder who do not resist, and harvesting from them in interest (tokous) as it were a manifold progeny (ekgnonous) of the parent sum (patros), foster the drone and pauper element in the state’ (555e-556a). 235 Why does Socrates have recourse to the example of money-lending here? He is evidently trying to suggest the close resemblance between his account of the Good and the Good itself. This is why he compares them to a son and a father respectively. But then he comes to think of the resemblance between the interest on a loan and the principal on the loan. Coinage thus seems to serve as a model for the ideal resemblance between that which engenders and that which is engendered. However, the comparison of the Form of the Good to coinage leads Socrates to worry about the possibility of deception. After making this comparison he gives his companions the following warning: εὐλαβεῖσθε μέντοι μή πῃ ἐξαπατήσω ὑμᾶς ἄκων, κίβδηλον ἀποδιδοὺς τὸν λόγον τοῦ τόκου. But be careful that I do not unwillingly deceive you by rendering a false (kibdēlon) account of the interest. The word kibdēlos specifically refers to ‘adulterated’ or ‘counterfeit’ merchandise, hence my translation as ‘false.’ Socrates seems to suggest that his account could conceivably be counterfeit- like a counterfeit coin. If it is counterfeit, it may pass for the real thing when in fact it is false. 27 That is why Socrates suggests that he may unwillingly (ἄκων) deceive both his interlocutors and himself: for, if his account is a false one, it is nevertheless one that he believed to be true. 27 For a discussion of the notion of counterfeit money, see Derrida (1992), esp. p. 87: ‘Counterfeit money is never, as such, counterfeit money. As soon as it is what it is, recognised as such, it ceases to act as and be worth counterfeit money. It only is by being able to be, perhaps, what it is.’ 236 The practice of money-lending thus suggests itself to Socrates at the very moment when he mentions the Form of the Good. The comparison is significant because the Form of the Good can only be thought by recourse to analogy. 28 It is not any of the things to which it is compared: for it is beyond being (ἐπεκείνα τῆς οὐσίας, Pl. Rep. 509b). It is perhaps for this reason that it can only be thought by means of these comparisons. I would argue that notions associated with exchange also play a role later in Socrates’ account. The idea of economic distribution seems to affect Socrates’ description of the sun- one of the things to which the Good is compared. Socrates points out that the sun provides the light and that it is because of light that the eye can see. This would make the eye the most ‘sunlike’ of sense organs, even if it were not itself the sun. Socrates casts the relationship between the eye and the sun in the following manner: οὐκοῦν καὶ τὴν δύναμιν ἣν ἔχει ἐκ τούτου ταμιευομένην ὥσπερ ἐπίρρυτον κέκτηται; Pl. Rep. 508b And does it not receive the power which it possesses as an influx, as it were, dispensed (tamieuomenēn) from the sun? The verb tamieuein means ‘to be a paymaster.’ It can be used transitively, as it is here, to mean ‘to deal out’ or ‘dispense.’ Socrates thus suggests that the sun is like a paymaster and the eye like a payee. As a paymaster, the sun would occupy an authoritative role. This may well be one reason why Socrates describes the sun as the ‘lord’ (κύριος, 508a) of the visible 28 As Michael Naas puts it, the Good pretends ‘to give itself to analogy without being contaminated by analogy’ (Naas 2008, 49). 237 realm. But the connection becomes more significant when we consider the relation between the sun and the Form of the Good. If the Form of the Good is in the intelligible realm what the sun is in the visible realm, then the Form of the Good would also be like a paymaster, bestowing upon intelligible things their capacity to be thought. The links between the Form of the Good and the economy are significant when we come to consider the relationship between the Form of the Good and the Divided Line. For, as Jacques Derrida has pointed out, the Good both orders the Line and is ordered by it. 29 If the Good underlies the Line and the Good resembles money, then something like money would underlie the Divided Line. And it is during his discussion of the Divided Line that Socrates develops his conception of dialectic. 30 In the next section, I shall read through the passage on the Divided Line. This passage will help us to understand the structure of the philosophers’ education. We shall have cause to reflect on the relationship between the mathematical sciences, which form the first stage of the philosophers’ education, and dialectic, which forms the last. The Divided Line Socrates’ account of the Divided Line has been described as being ‘extraordinarily difficult’ to interpret. 31 I would argue that one of the chief problems lies in the difficulty of interpreting the word hypothesis. Hypothesis is derived from the verb hypotithēmi, which is 29 Derrida (2005), 137. 30 We should note that Plato’s xenos characterises dialectic in a different fashion in the Sophist (253c-e) It is thus difficult to say with confidence that Plato had a single or coherent notion of dialectic. For a discussion of this passage- and, in particular, Plato’s differentiation of dialectic from grammatical science- see Derrida (1981), 166). 31 These are Stanley Rosen’s words in his commentary on the Republic. See Rosen (2005), 266. 238 composed of the preposition hypo- (‘with,’ ‘by,’ ‘under’) and the verb tithēmi (‘I place,’ ‘I set,’ ‘I put’). Hypothesis itself has an extraordinarily broad semantic range, as Derrida pointed out in his late essay, Rogues: Hypothesis in Greek will have signified before all else the base or basis, the infrastructure posed beneath or at the bottom of a foundation. As such, it will have been a figure for the bottom or the basement, the groundwork or the foundation, and thus the principle of a thing, the reason of an institution, the raison d’être of a science or a reasoning, of a logos or a logic, of a theory, rationalization, or ratiocination. It will have also done this as the subject, substance, or supposition of a discourse, as a proposition, design, or resolution, but most often as a condition. The rationality of reason is forever destined, and universally so, for every possible future and development, every possible to-come and becoming, to contend between, on the one hand, all these figures and conditions of the hypothetical and, on the other hand, the absolute sovereignty of the anhypothetical, of the unconditional or absolute principle. Derrida (2005), 136 Derrida’s reflections on the word hypothesis are motivated precisely by this passage in the Republic, as he makes clear in the lines that follow. They encourage us to be sensitive to the ways in which Plato plays with the term. In order to better illustrate the pressures to which the term is subjected, I shall often draw attention to it or leave it untranslated in my rendering. The description of the Divided Line follows closely upon Socrates’ account of the Form of the Good. Socrates began by reminding Glaucon of the schema that they had erected. They had decreed that there were two realms: the sensible and the intelligible. They had then described the Good as the king of the intelligible realm and everything in it, and the sun as 239 the king of the visible realm. The Good was to everything in the intelligible realm as the sun was to everything in the visible realm. Socrates then asked his interlocutors to imagine that the two realms were represented on a line that was divided into two unequal segments. Each section of the line would then be subdivided into two further segments that differed from each other in terms of their relative clarity or opacity. The first segment on the part of the line that represented the visible realm would contain images (εἰκόνες), by which Socrates meant shadows or reflections in water or on shiny surfaces. The second segment on this part of the line would contain the originals of these images, whether these were animals, plants, or any artificial objects. Socrates proposed that the relationship between the images and the originals was analogous to the relationship between what was believed and what was knowable, or else to the relationship between what was not true and what was true. Socrates began by dividing the part of the line that represented the intelligible realm into two sections: ᾗ τὸ μὲν αὐτοῦ τοῖς τότε μιμηθεῖσιν ὡς εἰκόσιν χρωμένη ψυχὴ ζητεῖν ἀναγκάζεται ἐξ ὑποθέσεων, οὐκ ἐπ᾽ ἀρχὴν πορευομένη ἀλλ᾽ ἐπὶ τελευτήν, τὸ δ᾽ αὖ ἕτερον- τὸ ἐπ᾽ ἀρχὴν ἀνυπόθετον- ἐξ ὑποθέσεως ἰοῦσα καὶ ἄνευ τῶν περὶ ἐκεῖνο εἰκόνων, αὐτοῖς εἴδεσι δι᾽ αὐτῶν τὴν μέθοδον ποιουμένη. Pl. Rep. VI 510b In one section of the line, the soul, using as images the things that were imitated before, is compelled to investigate by means of hypotheseis, proceeding not to a first principle (archē), but to a conclusion (teleutē); but in the other one, it makes its way to an anhypothetical (anhypotheton) first principle 240 from a hypothesis and without the images used in the previous subsection, making its way with and through the forms themselves. In this passage, Socrates distinguishes between two types of reasoning. The first passes by means of hypotheseis through to a conclusion (τελευτή), while the second also proceeds from hypotheseis, but leads to what he calls a ‘first principle’ (ἀρχὴ). Socrates regards the two as being fundamentally distinct. We should note at this point that the word for a ‘conclusion,’ teleutē, can also mean ‘end,’ ‘completion,’ ‘event,’ or ‘accomplishment.’ Archē, on the other hand, can mean an ‘origin’ or ‘beginning,’ as well as meaning ‘rule,’ ‘empire,’ or ‘authority.’ The distinction- or, as it will turn out, the opposition- between teleutē and archē would then amount to the difference between the end and the beginning. I would suggest at this point that the notions of an ending and of a beginning are relative values that are mutually constitutive- though Socrates seems to think that the beginning or origin is in some way superior to the ending. Since Glaucon was unsure of Socrates’ meaning, he prompted him to elaborate. Socrates explained that the first section of the line encompassed practices such as those of the geometers or mathematicians. The mathematicians and geometers postulated things like the odd and the even and the three kinds of angle; however, they did not seek to render an account of these axioms themselves. Socrates claimed that the geometers and mathematicians could proceed to their conclusions by means of these hypotheseis without ever questioning the foundations on which their arguments were built. 32 Socrates suggested that these types of enquiries were not directed towards truth: 32 Heidegger makes a similar point in his seminars on the Sophist: ‘The mathematician does not himself discuss the axioms; instead, he merely operates with them. To be sure, modern mathematics contains a theory of axioms. But, as can be observed, mathematicians attempt to treat even the axioms mathematically. They seek to 241 οὐκοῦν καὶ ὅτι τοῖς ὁρωμένοις εἴδεσι προσχρῶνται καὶ τοὺς λόγους περὶ αὐτῶν ποιοῦνται, οὐ περὶ τούτων διανοούμενοι, ἀλλ᾽ ἐκείνων πέρι οἷς ταῦτα ἔοικε, τοῦ τετραγώνου αὐτοῦ ἕνεκα τοὺς λόγους ποιούμενοι καὶ διαμέτρου αὐτῆς, ἀλλ᾽ οὐ ταύτης ἣν γράφουσιν, καὶ τἆλλα οὕτως, αὐτὰ μὲν ταῦτα ἃ πλάττουσίν τε καὶ γράφουσιν, ὧν καὶ σκιαὶ καὶ ἐν ὕδασιν εἰκόνες εἰσίν, τούτοις μὲν ὡς εἰκόσιν αὖ χρώμενοι, ζητοῦντες δὲ αὐτὰ ἐκεῖνα ἰδεῖν ἃ οὐκ ἂν ἄλλως ἴδοι τις ἢ τῇ διανοίᾳ. Pl. Rep. VI 510d-511a Then don’t you know that they use visible forms and make their arguments about them, not about the things that they are thinking about, but about those things that resemble them, making arguments for the sake of the square itself and the diagonal itself, not the diagonal they draw, and similarly with the others; the very things that they fashion and draw, of which shadows and reflections in water are images, they now in turn use as images in seeking to see those other things themselves that one cannot see except by means of thought. Socrates seems to have objected to the reliance of the mathematicians or geometers upon visible or drawn figures. Such practices, he claimed, would prevent them from getting beyond the hypotheseis to the first principles (ἀρχαὶ), since the figures that they drew were mere images of the original ideas. The original ideas- the ideal forms that enabled squares and diagonals to be drawn at all- were to be found in the other subsection of the intelligible: τὸ τοίνυν ἕτερον μάνθανε τμῆμα τοῦ νοητοῦ λέγοντά με τοῦτο οὗ αὐτὸς ὁ λόγος ἅπτεται τῇ τοῦ διαλέγεσθαι δυνάμει, τὰς ὑποθέσεις ποιούμενος οὐκ ἀρχὰς ἀλλὰ τῷ ὄντι ὑποθέσεις, οἷον ἐπιβάσεις τε καὶ ὁρμάς, ἵνα μέχρι τοῦ ἀνυποθέτου ἐπὶ τὴν τοῦ παντὸς ἀρχὴν ἰών, ἁψάμενος prove the axioms by means of deduction and the theory of relations, hence in a way which itself has its ground in the axioms. This procedure will never elucidate the axioms’ (Heidegger 1997, 25). 242 αὐτῆς, πάλιν αὖ ἐχόμενος τῶν ἐκείνης ἐχομένων, οὕτως ἐπὶ τελευτὴν καταβαίνῃ, αἰσθητῷ παντάπασιν οὐδενὶ προσχρώμενος, ἀλλ᾽ εἴδεσιν αὐτοῖς δι᾽ αὐτῶν εἰς αὐτά, καὶ τελευτᾷ εἰς εἴδη. Pl. Rep. VI 511b-c Understand, then, that by the other subsection of the intelligible I mean what reason (logos) grasps by the power of dialectical discussion, treating its hypotheseis, not as first principles, but as real hypotheseis, such as steps or starting points (epibaseis te kai hormas), in order to arrive at what is anhypothetical and the first principle of everything; having grasped this principle, it lays a hold of all the things that follow from it, and thus it goes down to the conclusion, making no use of any sensible object, and using forms alone: through them and into them and ending in forms. Glaucon summarised Socrates’ account as an attempt to define the science of dialectic (τῆς τοῦ διαλεγέσθαι ἐπιστήμης, 511c) and its objects in the intelligible realm. Socrates was asserting that the objects of dialectic were clearer than those of the arts or sciences (τέχναι), which took hypotheseis like the mathematical axioms as their first principles. What is more, he would claim that those who studied these arts did not have true understanding (νοῦς) of the things that they claimed to study, even though the objects of their study belonged to the intelligible realm. The geometers would then not possess true understanding of their subject, but thought (διανοία). Socrates declared that ‘understanding’ (νοῦς) was the highest condition (πάθημα) of the soul, thought (διανοία) the second highest, belief (δόξα) the third highest, and imagination (εἰκασία) the lowest. The closer that each faculty was to truth, the greater its share of clarity (σαφηνεία). In the passage on the divided line, Socrates draws an opposition between the objects of the mathematical sciences and the objects of dialectic. He says that the objects of dialectic are clearer than the objects of the mathematical sciences and places dialectic above the 243 mathematical sciences. Those who practise the mathematical sciences are said not to have true understanding of their subjects because they cannot explain the hypotheseis that they use as first principles. Dialectic is superior to them precisely because its practitioners can explain the first principle of everything. However, there are, signs that the relationship between the two is much closer than Socrates would have us believe. Though dialectic and the technai may have different ends- that is, the archē and the teleutē respectively- they both proceed to those ends by means of hypotheseis. Socrates says that the mathematicians use axioms like the odd and the even as hypotheseis, while the dialecticians do not. However, the hypotheseis of the mathematicians are not ‘real’ hypotheseis: they are in fact archai that determine in advance the conclusions reached through mathematical reasoning. The hypotheseis of the mathematicians are thus conditions that cannot be questioned within the terms of mathematical discourse itself. Socrates suggests that ‘real’ hypotheseis are not archai, but are rather epibaseis or hormai. Epibasis, which is derived from the verb epibainō (‘I go on to,’ ‘I mount’), refers to something that can be stepped upon- hence the rendering ‘stepping stone’- while hormē, from hormaō (‘I set in motion,’ ‘I urge on’), refers to an ‘rapid motion forwards’ or ‘impulse.’ It is implied that a true hypothesis is not an axiom. This is why the hypotheseis of the dialecticians lead to that which is anhypotheton: that which is anhypothetical or unconditional- the true condition of that which is the archē of all things. Whether hypothesis is translated as archē, on the one hand, or as epibasis or hormē on the other, the term turns up on both sides of the divide that separates dialectic from the mathematical sciences. The same divide separates the unconditional from the conditional and the clear from the obscure. Plato would thus give us two different senses of the word 244 hypothesis. However, he would not ascribe the same value to each. The mathematical hypotheseis are said not to be real hypotheseis, but archai. The real hypothesesis are the anhypothetical hypotheseis of the dialecticians. Plato’s Socrates would thus have us consider the hypotheseis of the mathematicians- the mathematical axioms- as illusions when compared to those of the dialecticians. Nevertheless, he calls the dialecticians’ epibaseis and hormai by the same name that he gave to the hypotheseis of the mathematicians. This leads us to suspect that there is a deeper complicity between the two kinds of hypothesis. Plato would have us believe that the anhypothetical or unconditional hypotheseis of the dialecticians were superior to the hypothetical or conditional hypotheseis of the mathematicians. But it would appear that the latter are the condition of possibility of the former. The parasitism of terms would encourage us to consider the mathematical sciences as the basis upon which Plato conceives dialectic. In other words, he would have needed the mathematical in order to think the dialectical. The passage on the Divided Line helps us to understand the tension in Plato’s relationship to the mathematical. 33 On the one hand, dialectic is not mathematics. Plato clearly distinguishes the latter from the former. But on the other hand, the mathematical appears to have been the basis upon which Plato conceptualised the dialectical, transforming their relationship to one of co-implication. 34 The mathematical sciences, which compose the first stage of the philosophers’ education, would thus be closer, conceptually speaking, to the last stage than Socrates would have had us think. 33 For a discussion of the relationship between mathematics and Platonism in the philosophical tradition, see Rosen (2005), 296. 34 Derrida also notes that it is the mathematical that ‘from the inside, will have ordered the line and its logos’ (Derrida 2005, 137). 245 All of this leads us to reflect upon the dependence of theoretical mathematics on the notion of arithmetic for the purposes of trade. 35 The monetary form taken by the Good that underlies the Line may perhaps no longer seem quite so fortuitous. Conclusion In this chapter, I have analysed several important passages from Plato’s Republic. I have argued that notions taken from the realm of economy and exchange were central to the development of several major Platonic ideas. This would then serve to complicate the notion that Plato was simply hostile to monetary exchange. 36 In closing, I would like to reflect upon Richard Seaford’s main thesis in Money and the Early Greek Mind: namely, that the invention of coinage was a factor in ‘a crucial and unprecedented conceptual transformation’ (Seaford 2004, 6) that resulted in the formation of Greek metaphysics. As I mentioned in my introduction, the idea that money caused this transformation certainly pushes the evidence a little too far. But notions associated with money and exchange do play a fundamental role in the work of Plato, and, as I said before, they do so in the works where Plato- the one who gave philosophy its name- develops his most influential ideas about philosophy. We might thus reformulate Seaford’s claim in the following manner: instead of claiming that monetization brought about the birth of philosophy, we might say that the two were joined at birth- and that monetary exchange continues to prompt us to ask what philosophy, exchange, and their opposites are. 35 Pl. Rep. VII. 525c-526c. 36 See for example Seaford (2004), 260. 246 Conclusion: Counting the Change This dissertation has argued that the economic is implicated in the philosophical. It has demonstrated the importance of the economic in the construction of the opposition between sophist and philosopher, whilst showing the inextricability of the philosophical and the economic in the Republic. We were thus able to see how notions taken from the economy underlie some of Plato’s more enduring ideas- even though the realm of exchange is one that Plato explicitly condemns. The economic would then appear to be at the origin of the philosophical. It would be that against which the philosophical is constituted. This is in part why I have given my dissertation the title ‘Money problems at the birth of philosophy’. By way of conclusion, I shall consider the connection between the invention of money- that is to say, coined money- and the invention of philosophy. What, if anything, was the significance of this historical event for Plato? Derrida gives us a way of thinking through this question in a paragraph from Of Grammatology. In the course of a reading of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Derrida draws a comparison between coined money and phonetic writing- another technology that spread around the Greek world in the Archaic period: This movement of analytic abstraction in the circulation of arbitrary signs is quite parallel to that within which money is constituted. Money (L’argent) replaces things by their signs, not only within a society but from one culture to another, or from one economic organization to another. That is why 247 the alphabet is commercial, a trader. It must be understood within the monetary moment of economic rationality. The critical description of money is the faithful reflection of the discourse on writing. In both cases an anonymous supplement is substituted for the thing. Just as the concept retains only the comparable element of diverse things, just as money gives the “common measure” to incommensurable objects in order to constitute them into merchandise, so alphabetic writing transcribes heterogeneous signifieds within a system of arbitrary and common signifiers: the living languages. It thus opens an aggression against the life that it makes circulate. If “the sign has led to the neglect of the thing signified,” as Emile says speaking of money, then the forgetfulness of things is greatest in the usage of those perfectly abstract and arbitrary signs that are money and phonetic writing. Derrida (1997), 300. Here, Derrida suggests that money is analogous to writing because both replace things with their signs. The technical prostheses of writing and of coined money would have brought into question the relationship between signs such as these and the things that they signified. According to philosophers like Rousseau, a fixation upon signs had led to the neglect of the things they signified. Derrida also suggests that money and writing are analogous to concepts, since all of them provide the common point of reference, or else the ‘comparable element’, for diverse things. And here we can glean something of the impact of money on the early Greek mind. For Plato also seems to note the importance of money as an analogue in this regard. To illustrate my point, I shall consider the importance of a specific image that occurs at several key moments in Plato: namely, the image of changing money. This image supposes the invention and dissemination of coinage throughout ancient Greece. We may recall that it 248 was invoked already in the passage from the Phaedo with which we started. 1 It was also adduced by Socrates in Book Seven of the Republic, during his discussion of abstract number. 2 I would argue that it plays an important role in several other Platonic dialogues. In order to demonstrate this, let us first turn to the second half of the Sophist. The xenos has just argued that ‘being,’ ‘rest,’ ‘motion,’ ‘sameness,’ and ‘otherness’ are five distinct kinds, and that the meaning of ‘non-being’ (τὸ μὴ ὄν) is ‘otherness’ (τὸ θάτερον). Once Theaetetus has concurred with these arguments, the xenos makes the following proposition: ἡ θατέρου μοι φύσις φαίνεται κατακεκερματίσθαι καθάπερ ἐπιστήμη. Pl. Soph. 257c It seems to me that the nature of otherness (thaterou) has been split up into smaller parts (katakekermatisthai), as has knowledge. Here, the xenos seems to be drawing a comparison between otherness and knowledge. Both, in his view, are split up into distinct parts. But the word that he uses to describe this partitioning- katakermatizein- is a curious one. As Martin Heidegger has pointed out, katakermatizein is a compound verb formed from the preposition kata (‘down,’ ‘through’) and the verb kermatizein (‘cut up,’ ‘coin into money,’ or ‘change into smaller coin’). He argues that it has a particular meaning in Plato: Κατακερματίζειν means to exchange a larger denomination of money for smaller ones, such that the smaller denominations themselves are still money. It is a changing, a particularization, of such a kind 1 Pl. Phaed. 69a. I argued that the image in this passage is specifically that of changing up money. 2 Pl. Rep. VII. 525e-526a. I discussed this passage in Ch. 4. 249 that the μέρη [‘parts’] themselves are of the same character as the whole greater piece. Heidegger (1997), 389. On Heidegger’s reading, the xenos would be suggesting that the kind ‘otherness’ (τὸ θάτερον), like that of ‘knowledge’ (ἐπιστήμη), was split up into parts that closely resembled the kind of which they were part- just as large denominations of coinage are of the same character as smaller denominations. The xenos himself thinks of his description as a kind of illustration. Upon finishing it, he says, ἡμεῖς δέ γε οὐ μόνον τὰ μὴ ὄντα ὡς ἔστιν ἀπεδείξαμεν, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸ εἶδος ὃ τυγχάνει ὂν τοῦ μὴ ὄντος ἀπεφηνάμεθα· τὴν γὰρ θατέρου φύσιν ἀποδείξαντες οὖσάν τε καὶ κατακεκερματισμένην ἐπὶ πάντα τὰ ὄντα πρὸς ἄλληλα, τὸ πρὸς τὸ ὂν ἕκαστου μόριον αὐτῆς ἀντιτιθέμενον ἐτολμήσαμεν εἰπεῖν ὡς αὐτὸ τοῦτό ἐστιν ὄντως τὸ μὴ ὄν. Pl. Soph. 258d-e We, for our part, have not only demonstrated that things which are not are, but have even shown (apephēnametha) what the form (eidos) of non-being happens to be: for we have demonstrated that the nature of otherness (thaterou) is and is partitioned (katakekermatismenēn) among everything that does exist in their relationships to each other, and we have dared to say that each part of otherness which is set against the being of each really is this thing itself, namely, non-being. Following the metaphor, Heidegger explains the thinking of the xenos thus: ‘the large coin (die große Münze) of otherness as such has been broken down into the possible concretions of other beings’ (Heidegger 1997, 393, with modifications). The relation between 250 to thateron and its parts would thus resemble the relationship between a large denomination of coinage and the smaller denominations. It is worth spelling out the comparison or analogy here. As a large denomination of coinage is to a smaller one, so the kind ‘otherness’ (τὸ θάτερον) is to the parts of otherness that are distributed amongst every other being. This is why the xenos claims that they have shown the ‘form’ or ‘outward look’ (εἴδος) that otherness- or Non-being- takes. Through their argumentation, they have constructed an image that can help us to understand how the parts of ‘otherness’ can be related to the kind ‘otherness’. 3 What is the status of this argument by analogy? Is it a mere image, as Heidegger seems to suggest? 4 And if so, why the recourse to the particular image of changing money? For from another perspective, the occurrence of the verb katakermatizein at this crucial moment in the Sophist would suggest that money-changing was more important to the thinking of the xenos than he might like us to believe. There are several other passages where katakermatizein is used as a metaphor. In fact, if we accept that the verb properly refers to the changing of money, then we can say that it is only used as a metaphor in Plato. 5 The question then arises as to what purpose it serves. Since such questions are best answered on a case-by-case basis, I shall now turn to a passage in Book Three of the Republic. During a discussion of the mimetic arts, Socrates 3 Pl. Soph. 257c-258b. 4 According to Heidegger, this passage is ‘not a demonstration, but an exhibition of the meaning of the concretion of otherness’ (Heidegger 1997, 392). He seems to regard it as being of a different status than demonstrations by argumentation alone. 5 In the Statesman, the xenos uses the verb katakermatizein in the context of dividing tame, gregarious animals into different groups; and in the Parmenides, katakermatizein is used of Being (οὐσία, Pl. Parm. 144b). 251 asserts that the same men cannot act in both comedies and tragedies, before applying the principle to mankind more generally: καὶ ἔτι γε τούτων, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, φαίνεταί μοι εἰς σμικρότερα κατακεκερματίσθαι ἡ τοῦ ἀνθρώπου φύσις, ὥστε ἀδύνατος εἶναι πολλὰ καλῶς μιμεῖσθαι ἢ αὐτὰ ἐκεῖνα πράττειν ὧν δὴ καὶ τὰ μιμήματά ἐστιν ἀφομοιώματα. Pl. Rep. 395b And human nature, Adeimantus, seem to me to be minted in even smaller coins (katakekermatishai) than this, so that an individual can neither imitate many things well nor perform well the actions themselves of which those imitations are likenesses. The point seems to be that individuals need to specialise because it is impossible for them to imitate many things well. But Socrates also seems to compare human nature (ἡ τοῦ ἀνθρώπου φύσις) to coinage here. If we follow the analogy, we might say that ‘human nature’ and ‘coinage’ resemble each other in the following way. A currency is split into coins of different denominations, but all of those different denominations remain part of the same larger whole- namely, the currency. In the same way, human beings have a variety of different qualities and take a variety of forms, but they remain part of the same larger whole: namely, the human race. In the passage from the Republic, the image of changing money helps Socrates to figure the relationship between part and whole, or else between the one and the many. It serves a similar function in a passage from the Meno, to which I now turn. During a discussion with his young interlocutor Meno, Socrates asks whether Meno is making fun of him with his answers to the question of what virtue is: 252 Σωκράτης: ὅτι ἄρτι ἐμοῦ δεηθέντος σου μὴ καταγνύναι μηδὲ κερματίζειν τὴν ἀρετήν, καὶ δόντος παραδείγματα καθ᾽ ἃ δέοι ἀποκρίνεσθαι, τούτου μὲν ἠμέλησας, λέγεις δέ μοι ὅτι ἀρετή ἐστιν οἷόν τ᾽ εἶναι τἀγαθὰ πορίζεσθαι μετὰ δικαιοσύνης· τοῦτο δὲ φῂς μόριον ἀρετῆς εἶναι; Μένων: ἔγωγε. Σωκράτης: οὐκοῦν συμβαίνει ἐξ ὧν σὺ ὁμολογεῖς, τὸ μετὰ μορίου ἀρετῆς πράττειν ὅτι ἂν πράττῃ, τοῦτο ἀρετὴν εἶναι· τὴν γὰρ δικαιοσύνην μόριον φῂς ἀρετῆς εἶναι, καὶ ἕκαστα τούτων. τί οὖν δὴ τοῦτο λέγω; ὅτι ἐμοῦ δεηθέντος ὅλον εἰπεῖν τὴν ἀρετήν, αὐτὴν μὲν πολλοῦ δεῖς εἰπεῖν ὅτι ἐστίν, πᾶσαν δὲ φῂς πρᾶξιν ἀρετὴν εἶναι, ἐάνπερ μετὰ μορίου ἀρετῆς πράττηται, ὥσπερ εἰρηκὼς ὅτι ἀρετή ἐστιν τὸ ὅλον καὶ ἤδη γνωσομένου ἐμοῦ, καὶ ἐὰν σὺ κατακερματίζῃς αὐτὴν κατὰ μόρια. δεῖται οὖν σοι πάλιν ἐξ ἀρχῆς, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, τῆς αὐτῆς ἐρωτήσεως, ὦ φίλε Μένων, τί ἐστιν ἀρετή, εἰ μετὰ μορίου ἀρετῆς πᾶσα πρᾶξις ἀρετὴ ἂν εἴη; τοῦτο γάρ ἐστιν λέγειν, ὅταν λέγῃ τις, ὅτι πᾶσα ἡ μετὰ δικαιοσύνης πρᾶξις ἀρετή ἐστιν. ἢ οὐ δοκεῖ σοι πάλιν δεῖσθαι τῆς αὐτῆς ἐρωτήσεως, ἀλλ᾽ οἴει τινὰ εἰδέναι μόριον ἀρετῆς ὅτι ἐστίν, αὐτὴν μὴ εἰδότα; Pl. Men. 79a-c Socrates: Because after my begging you not to break up virtue into small change (mē katagnunai mēde kermatizēis), and giving you a pattern on which you should answer, you have ignored all this, and now tell me that virtue is the ability to procure good things with justice; and this, you tell me, is a part of virtue? Meno: I do. Socrates: Then it follows from your own admission that doing whatever one does with a part of virtue is itself virtue; for you say that justice is a part of virtue, and so is each of such qualities. You ask the meaning of my remark. It is that after my requesting you to speak of virtue as a whole, you say not a word as to what it is in itself, but tell me that every action is virtue provided that it is done with a part 253 of virtue; as though you had told me what virtue is in the whole, and I must understand it forthwith- even if you are really splitting it up (katakermatizēis) into fragments! I think therefore that you must face the same question all over again, my dear Meno- ‘What is virtue?’- if we are to be told that every action accompanied by a part of virtue is virtue; for that is the meaning of the statement that every action accompanied by justice is virtue. Or do you not agree that you have to meet the same question afresh? Do you suppose that anyone can know a part of virtue when he does not know virtue itself? In this passage, Socrates expresses dissatisfaction with Meno’s description of virtue itself in terms of the actions that are regarded as being virtuous. When he criticises Meno for splitting virtue into parts, and then using the parts to explain the whole of virtue, he compares virtue to coinage. The comparison suggests that virtuous actions are related to virtue itself in the same way that smaller denominations are related to the currency of which they are part. Meno would thus have pointed to a part of virtue- the small coin, as it were- and identified it with the larger coin represented by the whole of virtue. As Socrates points out, this is quite the conceptual leap. Once again, the image of changing money is used to think about the relationship between part and whole. For Marc Shell, this analogy has a much broader significance for Platonic thought: According to Plato and Hegel, dialectic comprises two related ways of thinking, the division of a whole into parts and the generation of a whole from partial hypotheses. These dialectical methods are exemplified and informed by monetary representation and exchange. Plato, for example, argues that most men unwittingly divide up the conceptual and political world in which they live by a kind of division that is formally identical with money changing. His dialogues show how the dialectical relationships of the whole Idea (the One) to its special parts (the many) differ from the relationships 254 of a coin of large denomination to the coins of smaller denomination into which it may be changed. Shell (1982), 131. Shell argues that there is a formal analogy between the changing of money and the activity of dialectic. On his account, the notion of changing money ‘informed’ Plato’s conception of dialectic. Both at the micro-level and at the macro-level, then, the idea of money-changing would have shaped Plato’s thinking of the relation between part and whole. It must be said that Shell is at pains to stress the difference between monetary differentiation and dialectical differentiation. 6 On his account, Plato ‘argues that most men unwittingly divide up the conceptual and political world in which they live by a kind of division that is formally identical with money changing’- as if there were in fact a way of dividing the conceptual and political world in which we live by a kind of division that was not formally identical with money changing. But I would contend that there is no such type of division. On my reading, Plato’s repeated metaphorical uses of katakermatizein suggest that the notion of changing money is not just an analogy for envisaging the relationship between the part and the whole, but the necessary analogy. 7 Dialectical differentiation would always be formally analogous to its monetary counterpart. If the notion of money-changing is central to Plato’s conception of dialectic, as Shell argues, then we can say that the relatively recent invention of coinage and a practice associated with it are implicated in one of Plato’s most influential ideas. To this extent, one might argue that the invention of coinage was a factor in the development of philosophy. The 6 See Shell (1982), 131 and 186. 7 This may well be why Plato uses katakermatizein as if it were a technical term meaning simply ‘to partition’. 255 lowly practice of changing money would have helped Plato to think and articulate the relation between the part and the whole, or else the one and the many. This analysis of the relation between money-changing and dialectics brings us back to the quote with which we began. We may recall that Nietzsche made a similar set of claims about the relationship between thinking and exchanging: ‘Setting prices, determining values, contriving equivalences, exchanging- these preoccupied the earliest thinking of man to so great and extent that, in a certain sense, they are what thinking is’ (Nietzsche 1967, 70). For David Graeber, Nietzsche was saying ‘that we are rational calculating machines, that commercial self-interest comes before society, that “society” itself is just a way of putting a kind of temporary lid on the resulting conflict’ (Graeber 2011, 78). But instead, Nietzsche wrote that ‘in a certain sense’, these economic activities are what thinking is. There would thus be a difference between thinking and all of these economic activities, as well as many points of resemblance between them. What does that suggest about the character of the difference between them- this difference that admits of similarity within itself? 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Abstract (if available)

Abstract Money Problems at the Birth of Philosophy argues that the economic is implicated in the philosophical. It explores notions taken from the realm of the economy in the works of Plato and reveals the impact of the economic on some of Plato’s most influential ideas. I begin from the Protagoras, an early dialogue that was fundamental to the later distinction between sophist and philosopher. I then account for the early reception of this distinction with reference to ancient Greek politics. After this, I show how the political context of ancient Greece can help us to understand aspects of the Sophist, before making the case that Plato’s politics are implicated in his ontology. Finally, I reveal Plato’s secret dependence on economic notions for developing some of his more abstract ideas in the Republic.
Money Problems at the Birth of Philosophy thus re-evaluates the character of the relationship between the economical and the philosophical. In the process, it provides a new perspective on the history of philosophy.

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Asset Metadata

Creator Kelleher, Jack (author)

Core Title Money problems at the birth of philosophy

School College of Letters, Arts and Sciences

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Classics

Degree Conferral Date 2022-08

Publication Date 05/27/2022

Defense Date 04/28/2022

Publisher University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag deconstruction,Money,OAI-PMH Harvest,philosophy,Plato,sophistry

Language English

Contributor Electronically uploaded by the author (provenance)

Advisor Thalmann, William G. (committee chair), Kamuf, Peggy (committee member), Lape, Susan (committee member), Vasunia, Phiroze (committee member)

Creator Email jack.kelleher412@gmail.com,jjkelleh@usc.edu

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-oUC111336168

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Legacy Identifier etd-KelleherJa-10729

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