Book VII, 514–522

514a “Next,” I said, “compare our nature, in respect of education and its absence, to this experience. Imagine human beings in an underground, cave-like dwelling, with an entrance open to the light stretching the whole length of the cave. They have been there since childhood, bound by the legs and neck so that they remain in place and look only straight ahead 514b, unable because of the bonds to turn their heads. Light comes to them from a fire burning high above and far behind them; between the fire and the prisoners runs an elevated road. Imagine a low wall built alongside it, like the screens that showmen set between themselves and their audience, above which they display their marvels.”

“I see,” he said.

“Then see people carrying all kinds of objects along this wall 514c, projecting above it, statues

515a of men and other creatures fashioned from stone and wood and every sort of material. As one might expect, some of the carriers speak, others are silent.”

“A strange image,” he said, “and strange prisoners.”

“Like us,” I said. “To begin with, do you think such people have seen anything of themselves or one another except the shadows cast by the fire on the cave wall opposite them?”

“How could they,” he said, “if they have been forced to keep their heads still 515b all their lives?”

“And of the objects carried past them? Would they see anything else?”

“Of course not.”

“If they could talk to one another, would they not think they were naming real things when they named what they saw?”

“Necessarily.”

“And what if the prison had an echo from the opposite wall? Whenever one of the passersby spoke, would they suppose the voice belonged to anything other than the passing shadow?”

“By Zeus, I would not,” he said. 515c

“Then such people would take nothing else for the truth but the shadows of the manufactured objects.”

“They certainly would,” he said.

“Now consider,” I said, “what their release from bonds and their cure from folly would be like if this happened to them naturally. Suppose one prisoner were freed and suddenly compelled to stand, turn his neck, walk, and look toward the light. Doing all this would hurt him, and the glare would prevent him from seeing the things whose shadows he used to see 515d. What do you think he would say if someone told him that then he was seeing empty nonsense, but now, nearer to what is real and turned toward more real things, he sees more truly? And suppose his guide pointed out each passing object and forced him to answer questions about what it is. Would he not be at a loss, and believe that the things he saw before were truer than those now being shown him?”

“Much truer,” he said. 515e

“And if he were forced to look toward the light itself, would his eyes not ache? Would he not turn away and flee back to the things he can see, thinking them genuinely clearer than what he is being shown?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And if someone dragged him from there by force up the steep, rough ascent, and did not let go until he had hauled him into sunlight, would he not be in pain

516a and angry at being dragged? And when he reached the light, would his eyes not be so filled with its radiance that he could see not one of the things now called true?”

“Not immediately,” he said.

“He would need to grow accustomed to it, I think, if he were to see the things above. First he would most easily make out shadows; next, in water, reflections of people and other things; afterward the things themselves. From these he could go on to look at the things in the heavens and the heavens themselves more easily at night, gazing at the light of 516b stars and moon, than by day at the sun and its light.”

“Of course.”

“Finally, I think, he could look upon the sun—not its images in water or in some foreign setting, but the sun itself, in its own place—and contemplate what it is.”

“He must,” he said.

“And after that he would begin to reason about it: that it provides seasons and years, governs everything 516c in the visible realm, and is in some way the cause of all the things they used to see.”

“Clearly he would come to that conclusion after the others,” he said.

“Now if he remembered his first home, the wisdom there, and his fellow prisoners, would he not consider himself fortunate for the change and pity them?”

“Very much so.”

“Suppose they had honors, praises, and prizes among themselves for whoever saw most sharply what passed before them, best remembered which things were accustomed to come before, which after 516d, and which together, and so was most adept at predicting what would come next. Do you think he would long for those rewards and envy those honored and powerful among them? Or would he feel as Homer says, and greatly prefer ‘to labor as a field hand for another man, a landless man,’ and endure anything rather than hold those opinions and live that life?” 516e

“I think,” he said, “he would accept anything rather than live that way.”

“And consider this,” I said. “If such a man went down again and sat in his old seat, would his eyes not be filled with darkness on his sudden return from the sun?”

“They certainly would,” he said.

“And if, while his vision was still dim, before his eyes had adjusted—and this adjustment would take no little time—he had to compete in judging those shadows with the prisoners who had never left,

517a would he not invite laughter? Would they not say that he went up and came back with ruined eyes, and that it was not worth even attempting the ascent? And if they could somehow lay hands on the man who tried to release them and lead them up, would they not kill him?”

“They certainly would,” he said.

“Now, my dear Glaucon,” I said, “this whole image 517b must be applied to what we said before. The realm disclosed by sight must be likened to the prison dwelling, and the firelight there to the power of the sun. If you take the ascent and the sight of the things above as the soul’s ascent into the intelligible realm, you will not mistake my expectation, since it is mine you wish to hear. Whether it happens to be true, perhaps a god knows. At any rate, this is how it appears to me: in the realm of knowledge the Form of 517c the Good is the last thing seen, and seen only with difficulty. Once seen, it must be understood as the cause of all that is right and beautiful in everything: in the visible realm it gives birth to light and its master, and in the intelligible realm it is itself master, providing truth and understanding. Whoever would act wisely, in private or in public, must see it.”

“I agree,” he said, “as far as I am able.”

“Then agree with me in this too,” I said, “and do not wonder that those who have reached that height are unwilling to attend to human affairs: their souls are always eager to spend their time above. 517d That is only natural, if our image holds true.”

“Natural indeed,” he said.

“And would you find it surprising,” I said, “if someone returning from divine contemplation to human troubles behaved awkwardly and appeared utterly ridiculous, still blinking and not yet accustomed to the darkness around him, when forced to contend in the courts or elsewhere about the shadows of justice, or the images that cast those shadows, and to argue 517e about how these are conceived by people who have never seen justice itself?”

“Not surprising in the least,” he said.

518a “But anyone with sense,” I said, “would remember that the eyes can be troubled in two ways, for two reasons: by a passage from light into darkness, and by one from darkness into light. Recognizing that the same holds for the soul, whenever he saw one disturbed and unable to make things out, he would not laugh without thinking. He would consider whether it had come from a brighter life and was darkened through unfamiliarity, or whether, coming from deeper ignorance toward a brighter place, it was dazzled by the greater radiance 518b. Then he would count the first soul fortunate in its experience and life, and pity the second. If he wished to laugh at that second soul, his laughter would be less ridiculous than laughter directed at the soul that has come down from the light above.”

“Very measured words,” he said.

“Then, if this is true,” I said, “we must think of education as follows: it is not what some claim to make it. They claim, I believe, that they put knowledge into the soul where none exists 518c, as though putting sight into blind eyes.”

“They do make that claim,” he said.

“But our present argument,” I said, “shows that each soul has this power within it, and an instrument by which it learns. Just as an eye could not turn from darkness toward the light without the whole body turning, so this instrument must turn with the whole soul away from the world of becoming until it can bear to contemplate what is, and the brightest part of what is. This, we say 518d, is the Good. Is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Education, then, would be the art of this turning: how the soul may be turned about most easily and effectively. It would not be an art of putting sight into the soul, but of arranging for an existing power of sight, turned in the wrong direction and looking where it should not, to turn aright.”

“So it seems,” he said.

“The other so-called virtues of the soul, then, seem akin to those of the body: though not there at first, they can actually be produced later through habits and exercises 518e. But the power of understanding appears to belong to something far more divine. It never loses its capacity; through being turned, however, it becomes useful and beneficial,

519a or, conversely, useless and harmful. Have you never noticed how keenly the little soul of a man called wicked but clever sees, how sharply it discerns the objects toward which it is turned? Its sight is no poor thing, but it has been forced into the service of vice, and the more keenly it sees, the more evil it works.”

“Indeed I have,” he said.

“Yet if a soul of this nature had been cut free from childhood, if the leaden weights akin to becoming had been pruned away from it 519b—weights that grow upon it through eating and such pleasures and indulgences, and turn its vision downward—then, freed from them and turned toward what is true, this same power in these same people would see those things with the same piercing clarity with which it now sees the things toward which it is turned.”

“That is likely,” he said.

“And is it not likely,” I said, “indeed necessary from what we have said, that neither the uneducated, who have no experience of truth 519c, nor those allowed to spend all their lives in education, will ever govern a city adequately? The first have no single goal in life toward which all their actions, private and public, should be directed; the second will not willingly act, thinking themselves already settled in the Islands of the Blessed while still alive.”

“True,” he said.

“It is our task as founders,” I said, “to compel the finest natures to attain the study we formerly called the greatest: to see the Good 519d and make that ascent. And once they have climbed and seen enough, we must not permit them what is permitted now.”

“What is that?”

“To remain up there,” I said, “refusing to descend again to the prisoners and share in their labors and honors, whether these are of little or of great worth.”

“Then,” he said, “shall we do them an injustice and make them live a worse life when a better one is possible for them?” 519e

“Again, my friend,” I said, “you forget that the law is not concerned with securing exceptional happiness for one group in the city. It contrives to bring happiness to the city as a whole, harmonizing the citizens by persuasion and necessity, making them share with one another

520a the benefit each can contribute to the community. The law itself produces such people in the city not to let each go where he likes, but to employ them to bind the city together.”

“True,” he said. “I had forgotten.”

“Consider, then, Glaucon,” I said, “that we will not wrong those who become philosophers among us. We will speak justly to them when we compel them to care for and guard the others. We will say: ‘Philosophers arising in other 520b cities rightly take no part in their cities’ labors. They grow there of themselves, against the will of each government, and it is only fair that what grows of itself, owing its nurture to no one, should not be eager to pay anyone for its upbringing. But we have brought you into being, for yourselves and the rest of the city, as leaders and kings in a hive; we have educated you better and more completely than they, and made you more capable of sharing 520c in both lives. So each in turn must go down to live among the others and grow accustomed to seeing in the dark. Once accustomed, you will see a thousand times better than those who dwell there; you will recognize each image for what it is and what it represents, because you have seen the truth about beautiful, just, and good things. Thus our city will be governed in waking reality, not in a dream, as most cities now are, ruled by people who fight one another over shadows and contend for power 520d as if it were some great good. The truth, surely, is this: the city whose prospective rulers are least eager to rule must be governed best and with the least faction; a city with rulers of the opposite kind, in the opposite way.’”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Do you think our pupils, hearing this, will disobey us and refuse to share the work of the city in their turns, though they may spend most of their time together in the pure realm?” 520e

“Impossible,” he said. “We shall be assigning just duties to just people. Yet each will go to rule as to an unavoidable necessity, the very opposite of today’s rulers in every city.”

“So it is, my friend,” I said. “If you can discover

521a for those who will rule a life better than ruling, your city can be well governed. There alone will the truly rich rule—not rich in gold, but in what a happy person needs as wealth: a good and intelligent life. But if people who are poor and hungry for private goods enter public office, thinking they must seize their good from there, good government is impossible. Power then becomes a prize fought over, and such domestic, internal war destroys both the rulers and the rest of the city.”

“Entirely true,” he said. 521b

“Can you name,” I said, “any life besides that of true philosophy which looks down on political office?”

“By Zeus, I cannot,” he said.

“And those who come to power must not be in love with it. Otherwise rival lovers will fight them.”

“Of course.”

“Whom else, then, will you compel to take charge of the city but those who best understand how a city is governed well, and who have other honors and a life better than political life?”

“No one else,” he said. 521c

“Shall we now consider how such people will arise, and how one may lead them into the light, as some are said to have risen from Hades to the gods?”

“Of course I want to,” he said.

“This, it seems, will not be the turning of a potsherd, but the turning of a soul from a kind of night-bound day to true day: an ascent to what is, which we shall call true philosophy.”

“Certainly.”

“Then we must examine which studies possess such 521d power.”

“Of course.”

“What study, then, Glaucon, could draw the soul from becoming toward being? But as I speak, I recall another point: did we not say these people must be athletes of war in their youth?”

“We did.”

“So the study we seek must possess this quality as well.”

“Which?”

“It must not be useless to warriors.”

“Indeed it must not, if that is possible,” he said.

“Now we educated them before in gymnastics and music 521e.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Gymnastics, of course, is concerned with what comes to be and passes away: it oversees the growth and decay of the body.”

“So it appears.”

“Then this cannot be the study we seek.”

522a “No.”

“What about music as we described it before?”

“But that,” he said, “was the counterpart of gymnastics, if you remember. It trained the guardians through habits, giving them a kind of harmony through melody, not knowledge, and a sense of rhythm through rhythm; and its stories, whether mythical or more truthful, cultivated other kindred habits. It held no study leading toward 522b the sort of thing you are seeking now.”

“You remind me with perfect accuracy,” I said. “It contained nothing of the kind. But, my extraordinary Glaucon, what would? All the crafts, after all, appeared to be merely mechanical—”

“Of course. But what study is left besides music, gymnastics, and the crafts?”

“Well,” I said, “if we have nothing left to choose outside these, let us take something that extends through them all.”

“What?” 522c

“Something common to all crafts, all thought, and all sciences, which everyone must learn first.”

“What is it?” he said.

“The humble business,” I said, “of distinguishing one and two and three; in short, number and calculation. Is it not true that every craft and every science must have some share in these?”

“Very much so,” he said.

“And warfare too?” I asked.

“Most necessarily,” he said. 522d

“In the tragedies Palamedes makes Agamemnon a thoroughly ridiculous general, time after time. Have you not noticed? He says that after inventing number he arranged the army’s ranks at Troy and counted the ships and everything else, as if before that nothing had been counted and Agamemnon did not even know how many feet he had, since he could not count. What sort of general do you think that would make him?”

“A strange one indeed,” he said, “if the story were true.” 522e

“Shall we set down the ability to calculate and count as another necessary study for a warrior?” I said.

“Above all,” he said, “if he is to understand anything at all of troop formations—or, rather, if he is to be human.”

“Do you notice,” I said, “what I notice about this study?”

“What is it?”

514a “Next,” I said, “picture our condition, as far as education or lack of it is concerned, through this experience. Imagine people living in an underground cave. Its entrance is open to the light and runs the whole length of the cave. They have been there since childhood, with their legs and necks chained. They must stay where they are and can look only 514b straight ahead. The chains keep them from turning their heads. A fire burns behind them, above them and some distance away. Between the fire and the prisoners is a raised path. Imagine a low wall built alongside it, like the screen that puppet performers put between themselves and their audience, above which they show their puppets.”

“I see,” he said.

“Now imagine people carrying all sorts of objects along that wall, 514c with the objects rising above it: statues

515a and figures of other animals made of stone, wood, and every kind of material. As you would expect, some of the people carrying them speak, and others are silent.”

“That is an odd picture,” he said, “and odd prisoners.”

“They are like us,” I said. “First, do you think such prisoners would ever have seen anything of themselves or one another except the shadows the fire throws on the cave wall opposite them?”

“How could they,” he said, “if they had been forced to keep their heads still 515b all their lives?”

“And what about the objects carried past? Would they see anything else of those?”

“Of course not.”

“So if they could talk to each other, wouldn't they take the things they saw—the shadows—to be the real things?”

“They would have to.”

“And what if the prison also had an echo from the wall opposite them? Whenever one of the people passing by spoke, would the prisoners think the sound came from anything but the shadow going past?”

“By Zeus, I don't think they would,” he said. 515c

“Then these people would take nothing to be real except the shadows of the objects made and carried past them,” I said.

“They certainly would,” he said.

“Now consider,” I said, “what their release from the chains and their cure from ignorance would be like if something of this kind happened naturally to them. Suppose one prisoner was freed and suddenly made to stand up, turn his neck, walk, and look toward the light. Doing all that would hurt him. The glare would keep him from seeing the objects whose 515d shadows he used to see. What do you think he would say if someone told him that what he saw before was nonsense, but now he was closer to what is real, facing things that are more real, and seeing more correctly? Suppose that person pointed to each passing object and made him answer questions about what it was. Wouldn't he be at a loss and think the things he saw before were truer than the ones he was now being shown?”

“Much truer,” he said. 515e

“And if he was made to look directly at the light, wouldn't his eyes hurt? Wouldn't he turn away and run back to the things he could see, thinking those really were clearer than the things being shown to him?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And if someone dragged him away from there by force,” I said, “up a rough, steep path, and would not let go until he had pulled him out into the sunlight, wouldn't the man be in pain

516a and resent being dragged? When he reached the light, wouldn't his eyes be so full of brightness that he could not see even one of the things we now call real?”

“No, not right away,” he said.

“He would need time to get used to it, I think, if he was to see things up there. At first he could most easily see shadows. Next he could see reflections of people and other things in water, and after that the things themselves. Then it would be easier for him to look at the things in the sky and the sky itself at night, looking toward the light of 516b the stars and moon, than to look at the sun and its light by day.”

“Of course.”

“At last, I think, he could look at the sun itself, not its reflections in water or images of it in some other setting. He could see it in its own place and observe what it is like.”

“He would have to,” he said.

“After that he could work out that the sun gives us the seasons and years, governs everything 516c in the visible world, and is somehow the cause of everything he and the others used to see.”

“Clearly he would arrive at that thought after the others,” he said.

“What then? Remembering his first home, the wisdom practiced there, and his fellow prisoners, wouldn't he feel glad about his change and pity them?”

“Very much.”

“Suppose the prisoners used to give honors, praise, and prizes to whoever could spot the passing shadows most quickly, best remember which usually came before and after 516d which and which came together, and best predict from this what would come next. Do you think he would want those rewards or envy the people honored and powerful among them? Or would he feel as the man in Homer did, who would rather ‘work as a hired farmhand for another man, one with no land,’ and suffer anything at all than hold those opinions and live that way?” 516e

“I think he would accept anything rather than live that way,” he said.

“Consider this too,” I said. “If that man went down again and sat in his old seat, wouldn't his eyes be filled with darkness when he came suddenly out of the sunlight?”

“They certainly would,” he said.

“And suppose he had to compete with the people who had always been prisoners in judging those shadows, while his sight was still dim,

517a before his eyes had adjusted. That adjustment would take quite some time. Wouldn't they laugh at him? Wouldn't they say that he had gone up and come back with his eyes ruined, and that it wasn't worth even trying to go up? And if they could get hold of the person trying to free them and lead them upward and kill him, wouldn't they kill him?”

“They certainly would,” he said.

“Now, my dear Glaucon,” I said, “we must apply this whole picture 517b to what we said before. Compare the world we see with the home of the prisoners, and the light of the fire there with the power of the sun. If you take the climb upward and the sight of things above as the soul's journey up into the world of thought, you will understand what I believe. That is what you wanted to hear. Perhaps only a god knows whether it is true. At any rate, this is how it seems to me: in the world we can know, the Form of 517c the Good is the last thing to be seen, and it is hard to see. Once seen, we must conclude that it is the cause of everything right and beautiful for everyone. In the visible world it gives rise to light and to the sun that rules light. In the world of thought it rules directly and gives us truth and understanding. Anyone who is to act wisely, whether privately or publicly, must see it.”

“I agree,” he said, “as far as I can.”

“Then agree with me on this too,” I said. “Don't be surprised that people who reach this point don't want to deal with ordinary human affairs. Their souls are always eager to spend their time above. 517d That makes sense, if things really are as the picture suggests.”

“Yes, it makes sense,” he said.

“And would it be surprising,” I said, “if someone came back from looking at divine things to human troubles and behaved awkwardly and looked ridiculous? His eyes would still be dim. Before he was used to the darkness around him, he might be forced to argue in court or somewhere else about the shadows of justice or the images whose shadows they are. He would have to compete 517e over how people who have never seen justice itself understand such things.”

“It would not be surprising in the least,” he said.

518a “But anyone with sense,” I said, “would remember that eyes can be disturbed in two ways and for two reasons: by moving from light into darkness, and by moving from darkness into light. He would think the same applies to the soul. When he saw a soul confused and unable to see clearly, he would not laugh without thinking. He would ask whether it had come from a brighter life and was darkened because it was not used to its new surroundings, or whether it was moving from deeper ignorance into a brighter life and was dazzled by the greater brightness. 518b He would call the first soul fortunate because of its experience and its life, and pity the second. And if he wanted to laugh at the second, his laughter would be less ridiculous than laughter directed at the soul that had come down from the light above.”

“That's a very fair way of putting it,” he said.

“If this is true,” I said, “we must think about education in this way. It isn't what some people claim it is. They say they put knowledge into a soul that doesn't 518c have it, as though they were putting sight into blind eyes.”

“They do say that,” he said.

“But our present argument shows that the power to learn is already in everyone's soul, along with the means each uses to learn. Think of an eye that cannot turn from darkness to light unless the whole body turns with it. In the same way, this power must turn with the whole soul away from the world of change, until it can bear to look at what is and at the brightest part of what is. We call that 518d the Good, don't we?”

“Yes.”

“So education would be the skill of turning the soul around,” I said, “of finding the easiest and most effective way to turn it. It would not put sight into the soul. The soul already has sight, but is pointed the wrong way and isn't looking where it should. Education finds a way to correct that.”

“That seems right,” he said.

“The other so-called virtues of the soul may well be much like the qualities of the body. 518e They aren't there at first, and are later produced by habits and practice. But the ability to understand seems more divine than anything else. It never loses its power. Depending on how it is turned, it becomes either useful and helpful

519a or useless and harmful. Haven't you noticed how keenly the small soul of someone called clever but wicked looks at the things it is turned toward? It sees them sharply, so its vision is not weak. But it has been forced to serve wickedness. The sharper its sight, the more harm it does.”

“Yes, I have,” he said.

“Yet if such a nature were trimmed from childhood,” I said, “and the weights tied to it by birth were cut away—lead weights, as it were, which become attached through eating, related pleasures, and greedy indulgence, and turn 519b the soul's sight downward—then, freed from those weights and turned toward what is true, that same power in those same people would see truth as sharply as it now sees the things it is turned toward.”

“That is likely,” he said.

“And isn't this likely too,” I said, “indeed necessary from what we have said? Neither people without education or experience of truth 519c nor those allowed to spend their whole lives in education could ever govern a city adequately. The first group has no single goal in life to guide everything they do, privately and publicly. The second group will refuse to take part willingly, because they think they have already moved to the islands of the blessed while they are still alive.”

“That's true,” he said.

“Then it is our job as founders,” I said, “to require the best natures to reach the study we earlier called the greatest: to see the Good 519d and make that climb. Once they have climbed and seen enough, we must not let them do what they are now allowed to do.”

“What is that?”

“To stay up there,” I said, “and refuse to go back down to those prisoners and share their work and honors, whether those honors are worth little or much.”

“Then are we going to treat them unjustly,” he said, “and make them live worse lives when they could live better ones?” 519e

“You have forgotten again, my friend,” I said, “that the law does not aim to give one group in the city an especially good life. It works to make a good life possible throughout the city. It brings the citizens together through persuasion and compulsion, making each group share with the others whatever benefit it can give the community.

520a The law itself produces people of this kind in the city, not to let them go wherever they choose but to use them to bind the city together.”

“That's true,” he said. “I had forgotten.”

“Now consider, Glaucon,” I said, “that we won't be wronging the philosophers raised among us. We will have a fair reason for requiring them to take care of the others and act as guardians. We will say: ‘In other 520b cities, people like you quite reasonably do not share in the work of government. They grow up on their own, without their city's system intending it. What grows on its own owes no one the cost of raising it, and is right not to be eager to repay that cost. But we brought you into being, for yourselves and for the rest of the city, as leaders and kings, like those in a beehive. You have received a better and more complete education than those other philosophers, and you are better able 520c to share in both kinds of life. So each of you must take your turn going back down to live with the others and get used to seeing things in the dark. Once you are used to it, you will see a thousand times better than the people there. You will recognize each image for what it is and what it represents, because you have seen the truth about beautiful, just, and good things. Then our city will be governed by people who are awake, not dreaming as most cities are now. They are governed by people fighting each other over shadows and quarreling about who gets to rule, 520d as if ruling were some great prize. The truth is this: a city whose future rulers are least eager to rule must be governed best and have the least internal strife. A city with the opposite kind of rulers will be governed in the opposite way.’”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Do you think those we have educated will disobey us when they hear this? Will they refuse to take their turns sharing the city's work, while spending most of their time with one another in the clear light?” 520e

“Impossible,” he said. “We will be giving just orders to just people. But each of them will approach ruling as a duty, quite unlike those who rule in cities today.”

“That's how it is, my friend,” I said. “If you can find a life better than ruling for the people who are to rule,

521a you can have a well-governed city. Only in such a city will the rulers be truly rich—not in gold, but in what a happy person needs to be rich in: a good, sensible life. But if people who are poor and hungry for private rewards enter public life thinking they can grab what is good for themselves there, a well-governed city is impossible. When ruling becomes something to fight over, that kind of civil war destroys both them and the rest of the city.”

“That's absolutely true,” he said. 521b

“Can you name any life besides that of true philosophy,” I said, “that looks down on political office?”

“By Zeus, I can't,” he said.

“But people who love ruling must not be the ones to take it up. Otherwise rival lovers of power will fight them.”

“Of course.”

“So whom else will you require to guard the city but those who best understand how a city can be governed well, and who have other honors and a better life than a political one?”

“No one else,” he said. 521c

“Shall we now examine how such people will develop, and how someone can lead them into the light, as some people are said to have risen from Hades to the gods?”

“Of course I want to,” he said.

“This won't be like turning over a gaming piece,” I said. “It will be the turning around of a soul from a kind of night-bound day to the true day. It is the soul's climb toward what is, and we will call it true philosophy.”

“Certainly.”

“Then we must consider which studies have the power 521d to do this.”

“Of course.”

“What study, Glaucon, could draw the soul away from the world of change toward what is? As I say this, something else occurs to me. Didn't we say these people had to be trained for war when they were young?”

“We did.”

“Then the study we are looking for must have this quality as well.”

“What quality?”

“It must not be useless to soldiers.”

“Yes, if that's possible,” he said.

“We previously educated them in physical training and music and poetry.” 521e

“We did,” he said.

“Physical training deals with things that grow and decay. It looks after the body's growth and decline.”

“So it seems.”

“Then it cannot be the study we are looking for.”

522a “No.”

“Could it be the music and poetry we discussed earlier?”

“But that,” he said, “was the counterpart of physical training, if you remember. It educated the guardians through habits. Through harmony it gave them a sense of harmony, not knowledge; through rhythm, a sense of rhythm. It offered related habits in stories, whether the stories were mythical or more truthful. But there was nothing in it that led to the kind of study 522b you are looking for now.”

“You remind me very precisely,” I said. “It really had nothing of the kind. But, Glaucon, what could there be? We found that all the practical trades were too lowly for this purpose—”

“Of course. What study remains apart from music and poetry, physical training, and the trades?”

“Well,” I said, “if we can find nothing outside those, let's choose something that applies to all of them.”

“Such as what?” 522c

“Something common to all trades, all thinking, and all branches of knowledge, which everyone has to learn first.”

“What is that?” he said.

“The simple matter,” I said, “of telling one, two, and three apart. In short, I mean number and calculation. Doesn't every trade and every branch of knowledge have to use them?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said.

“And the art of war too?” I said.

“It certainly must,” he said. 522d

“In the tragedies, Palamedes makes Agamemnon look like a thoroughly ridiculous general. Haven't you noticed his claim that he invented numbers, arranged the ranks of the army at Troy, and counted the ships and everything else? Apparently none of them had been counted before. And Agamemnon, it seems, didn't even know how many feet he had, if he couldn't count. What kind of general do you think he was?”

“A strange one, if that story was true,” he said. 522e

“Then shall we say that the ability to calculate and count is another necessary subject for a soldier?”

“More than any other,” he said, “if he is to understand anything at all about arranging troops—or, for that matter, if he is even going to be human.”

“Do you notice what I notice about this study?” I asked.

“What?”