A Dialogue on the Philosopher King

Socrates was feeling quite happy with himself. He had just finished constructing his perfect city — at least in the minds of his followers. “Perhaps,” he was saying to himself as he walked down the road, “a student of mine will one day construct a kallipolis. He would be a just and fine ruler, a true philosopher king.” Just then, Socrates felt a sharp pain shoot up his leg. “Ow! What was that?” Looking down, he saw a little flat creature lying in the middle of the path.

“Oh, I’m sorry Socrates,” said the little creature. “I didn’t see you there. I was just listening in on your conversation with Glaucon and the others. It was terribly interesting, you see.”

“I see. But you’re a stingray, aren’t you?”

“I am no such thing!” he puffed up indignantly. “I am a manta ray. Stingrays just know how to turn arguments upside-down and make fine prize-winning speeches. Manta rays know the art of dialectic and seek truth and understanding. Or do you think otherwise?”

“No, no. I agree with you completely. Manta rays and philosophers would seem to have much in common. Now, was there something you wanted to ask me?”

“Yes, I have something to add to your discussion. I don’t believe in philosopher kings, you see. I agree that they would make excellent rulers, but I don’t think they can ever really exist.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“You say the kallipolis is a just city. It is ruled by the philosopher kings, who, ‘once they’ve seen the good itself, [...] must in turn put the city, its citizens, and themselves in order, using it as their model’ [540a]. However, it is not possible to know this ‘form of the good.’

“You state that there is ignorance, opinion, and knowledge. Opinion is ‘neither ignorance nor knowledge’ [478c], but something in between. Knowledge is by necessity true, for if it were false, it would only be opinion. But opinion can be right as well as wrong, can’t it?”

Socrates nodded thoughtfully. “But right opinion is not derived from knowledge. Even the person with right opinion fails to grasp the thing itself. A philosopher loves knowledge for this reason, and puts no stake in opinion. ‘We’d be right to call his thought knowledge, since he knows, but should call the other person’s thought opinion, since he opines’ [476d].”

“Indeed. In addition, the one with opinion may also have confidence in his opinions. If he has supreme confidence, he will not be swayed by what other people tell him or show him, not even if it is the truth. If he is right, he is right only insofar as he has right opinions.

“A person with no confidence, on the other hand, is convinced so easily that he will believe whatever anyone tells him. He will take in the false as easily as the true. Like the philosopher, he stakes nothing in opinion, but he has no knowledge, either.”

“He is certainly the most slavish and cowardly kind of person!”

“In fact, neither of these people can learn anything at all. Let me back up: knowledge is gained by learning, correct?”

“Of course. What in the world are you trying to get at?”

“Be patient. I’m getting to my point. First of all, a student obviously lacks knowledge while he is learning. Yet at the same time he is beyond ignorance. He cannot spontaneously go from knowing nothing to knowing everything! What the he has is opinion, since opinion lies between ignorance and knowledge. And as he learns, he invariably has many wrong opinions that he must discard in order to progress.

“Now I can come back to our two hypothetical figures, the one with supreme confidence and the one with no confidence at all. The first one cannot learn for he is unwilling to give up those wrong opinions he has while learning. You yourself said that such ‘people with stable characters, who won’t change easily [...] exhibit similar traits when it comes to learning: They are as hard to move and teach as people whose brains have become numb, and they are filled with sleep and yawning whenever they have to learn anything’ [503d]. The other one can’t learn either, for he refuses to risk building off of opinion. Knowledge cannot be reached without first passing through opinion, so his utter lack of confidence in his opinion prevents him from learning.”

“This has little to do with a philosopher king. Philosophers are thoroughly moderate, and will have neither too much nor too little confidence. ‘The one who readily and willingly tries all kinds of learning, who turns gladly to learning and is insatiable for it, is rightly called a philosopher, isn’t he’ [475c]?”

“He is. But what about the person with supreme knowledge, the knowledge of the good itself? Can he be swayed by anyone?”

“No, of course not. If he knows the form of the good, he knows all that is true, for ‘in the intelligible realm it controls and provides truth and understanding’ [517b]. Since he already knows what is true, anyone who would convince him of something else would be convincing him of something false. I shouldn’t have to tell you that philosophers ‘refuse to accept what is false’ [485c].”

“So a philosopher king, a person with supreme knowledge but no opinion, has supreme confidence. That’s not moderate at all!”

The mantra ray thought itself to have won the argument here, but Socrates thought differently. “Confidence is not applicable to the philosopher king. Once he has supreme knowledge, he no longer needs to learn. As a student he is moderate in his confidence — indeed, he is the best learner — but once he comes to know the good itself, he will have no opinion to be confident in. Opinion, by definition, can only exist where there is no knowledge.”

The manta ray had to think about this for a while. Several minutes later, however, he spoke again: “Socrates, a student may gain knowledge that is not knowledge of the good itself. What else does the form of good illuminate if not other objects of knowledge? As he comes to understand each of these, surely he has a better grasp of what is true and what is false, for he comes closer and closer to the source of truth. Thus his opinions prove increasingly right. Won’t his confidence also increase?”

“Why would it? ‘If we don’t know [the form of the good], even the fullest possible knowledge of other things is of no benefit to us’ [505a]. Remember also that philosophers stake nothing on opinion.”

“A philosopher must stake something on opinion if he is to learn. Otherwise he is like the person with no confidence at all. He must be able to use opinion, but still be willing to give it up. You say that knowledge is ‘the strongest [power] of them all’ [478a]. Gaining knowledge, then, increases the student’s power. He must also have confidence in his ability to use that power, or else he is slavish and cowardly. I say again, the more he learns, the more confident he gets.”

Socrates looked quite deflated at this.

“Now,” the manta ray continued, “as confidence increases, one’s ability to learn decreases. And ‘in the knowable realm, the form of the good is the last thing to be seen, and it is reached,’ as you say, ‘only with difficulty’ [517b]. Complete understanding, then, is attained once knowledge of the good itself is attained. At some point, the student knows everything except the form of the good. Since things he knows about but does not actually know are only opinions, he must have only an opinion of the good itself at that point. But the closer he gets to complete understanding, the greater his confidence, so he can never actually reach the point where he is willing to let go of this last opinion.

“We agreed earlier that the kallipolis can only exist when a philosopher king rules it, a philosopher king who knows the form of the good and therefore is able to establish true justice. ‘Unless someone can distinguish in an account of the form of the good from everything else, can survive all refutation, as if in a battle, striving to judge things not in accordance with opinion but in accordance with being, and can come through all this with his account still intact, you’ll say that he doesn’t know the good itself or any other good’ [534c]. If the form of the good is impossible to know, then no one can truly know justice, either. Not even the philosopher king.”

Socrates threw up his hands in anger. “You’re throwing back my own arguments against me! No matter. The kallipolis is the form of the city. The forms are more real and more perfect than any worldly echo. So-called real cities are merely shadows of the kallipolis.”

“In that case, philosophers are mere shadows of philosopher kings!”

This was the last straw for Socrates. He lunged toward the manta ray, but the manta ray just stepped aside and yanked off Socrates’ mask.

“Ah-ha!” he cried aloud in triumph. “You aren’t Socrates at all — you’re Plato!” And, of course, it was really Plato, not Socrates, who was standing there. He looked thoroughly flustered and embarrassed. “Shame on you, Plato. Imitating your master to get people to listen to your ideas. Tsk, tsk.”

“Now, see here! You haven’t done anything except turn my arguments upside-down and make fine prize-winning speeches. You are a stingray after all!”

“Yes, I am! Though I could never compare to the real Socrates. He was the best of us stingrays. But even the best need to be reminded that they aren’t perfect. Come now, Plato, you say you love learning above all else — isn’t being proven wrong only an opportunity to learn?”

Plato didn’t answer. He only scowled, and then stalked off, Socrates mask in hand. The stingray shrugged and headed down the road in the opposite direction. It was feeling quite happy with itself.

Works Cited:

• Plato. Republic. Trans. G.M.A. Grube, Revised C.D.C. Reeve. Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Co., Inc., 1992.